Forgiveness
by Sevlow
Summary: Mustang questions his sanity and searches for redemption as memories from the Ishbalan uprising silently tear him apart.
1. Ghosts

Riza Hawkeye entered the office to grab her coat and sighed. Another day had come to a close and not a lick of real work had gotten done. Papers were scattered across Havoc's desk, some of them with little doodles of large-breasted women decorating the margins. Fuery's desk was similarly adorned, although the doodles were thankfully absent. Breda's desk had not only papers strewn hither and thither, but also a candy wrapper and what looked like the remains of a cheese sandwich. Falman's desk, however, was immaculate as always. At least _he_ had the sense to stack papers and file documents before leaving for the day, even if he hadn't gotten around to actually _filling out_ said papers and documents.

And then there was the Colonel's desk. She looked up at it, expecting to see precarious stacks of disregarded forms, the floor covered with fallen papers—both flat and crumpled into frustrated balls—and a cold cup of that morning's coffee sitting on the corner. She was not disappointed, for that was exactly what she saw. What she did not expect was that Colonel Roy Mustang would still be there.

While he _was_ sitting at his desk, he was far from doing any actual work. He was, in fact, sleeping with his head pillowed in his crossed arms, his gentle exhalations rustling the stack of papers that he'd been ignoring all week.

Hawkeye wasn't really surprised. Mustang was always dozing and slacking off when he thought she wasn't looking. She snorted with quiet irritation as she moved over to his desk and stood over him for a moment, watching him sleep.

He'd been acting a little off lately. Preoccupied. A few days ago he'd snapped at poor Fury for no reason at all and then, looking frazzled, left the office and disappeared for an hour or so. When he came back he was distinctly quiet and, although he did apologize to Fuery, he said little else for the rest of the day. Hawkeye cornered him after work and managed to talk him into confiding the reason for his behavior. He'd been having flashbacks from the war again.

Only Hawkeye and a few of Mustang's closest friends knew that he suffered from occasional flashbacks. Typically, they would come and go quickly, leaving him shaken for a few moments, but he usually hid it quite well. Lately though, as Mustang confessed, they'd been coming hard and fast. One moment he'd be in his office listening to a report, the next he'd be on the battlefield surrounded by flames and listening to the wailing of Ishbalans as he burned them alive.

Judging from Mustang's behavior, the increase in flashbacks had begun about a week before Hawkeye was actually able to get him to admit that something was wrong, and it had only gotten worse from there. She didn't want to admit it—even to herself—but she was worried about him. His underlings were also beginning to notice a marked difference in his attitude that he was desperately trying to hide.

"Colonel," she said, attempting to wake him while still standing more-or-less at attention. When that failed she put her hand on his shoulder and shook him. "Colonel?"

His eyes shot open and he sat upright, his thumb and middle finger instantly ready to snap an inferno into existence if he felt the need. Startled, but standing her ground, Hawkeye watched realization work its way into the Colonel's dark, terrified eyes. He exhaled his held breath with a shudder and looked around quickly to make sure that no one else was in the office, lowering his hand as his eyes darted around the room.

"Damn, Hawkeye . . . you . . . you startled me," Mustang said shakily, trying to summon a laugh and only managing a nervous chuckle as he ran a trembling hand through his hair.

"Another one?" she asked him quietly after a moment of awkward silence that was broken only by the sound of the Colonel trying to regain his breath.

The Colonel slumped in his seat with his elbows on his desk and lowered his head into his hands, covering his face. "Yes," he said with a kind of sick irritation, his voice muffled by his gloves.

Hawkeye looked at him with pity. She would never know all the horrors that he'd had to face in Ishbal. She would never know what it felt like to melt someone's face off just because she'd been ordered to, and she would never, ever, know the visions that visited the Colonel in his nightmares. She did, however, have a pretty good idea. She had also been in Ishbal on the battlefield, but she did not always have to see her victims die. Guns are far less personal than Alchemy, and no one could accuse her of personally committing genocide in the way that people accused Roy. Oh, not everybody accused him. Not people who actually knew him . . . and never to his face . . . but he knew what some of the soldiers whispered behind their hands.

The Colonel was scarred mentally, physically, and socially by the travesty of Ishbal. Now, for some reason, the scars were opening afresh and neither Hawkeye nor Mustang knew why.

The blonde woman pushed his elbow aside unceremoniously and sat on the edge of his desk. With his face still in his hands, Mustang spread his fingers apart and looked up at her through the slits, no doubt attempting to look playful to lighten the sense of dread hanging on them both and managing only to look like a frightened child hiding from ghosts. Hawkeye took a deep breath and put her hand on her superior's head in a rare show of matronly affection. Unused to this sort of attention, especially from her, Mustang arched his eyebrow at her as if torn between amusement, embarrassment, and annoyance.

"You have the next two weeks off," she said abruptly, watching him. He sat up and looked at her squarely, his brow even more severely arched.

"What?"

"Vacation. Starting Monday."

He shook his head, looking tired. "I didn't request time off."

"I know. I did it for you."

" . . . What the hell are you talking about? You're not authorized—"

"I forged your signature," she interrupted, not bragging but not sounding guilty either.

Mustang gaped at her for a moment and then his face contorted with anger. "You had no right—"

"It is my job to look out for your well-being, sir, and it is obvious that you need a break," she interrupted again. Mustang bristled and opened his mouth to argue, but the First Lieutenant continued before he had the chance. "You're listless, distracted, quick to anger, and don't think that no one has noticed that you've lost weight in just the past few weeks."

She waited for him to say something in his own defense but instead he looked away from her and focused lamely on a loose thread on his cuff.

"I cleared it with Lieutenant General Grumman. He said that if you didn't take the time off, he'd force you to take a mandatory leave of absence."

Mustang gave a soft, dark laugh. "Is it so obvious that even that cracked old man noticed?"

"He's worried about you. We all are. The men have been tiptoeing around you for days."

"So you're kicking me out of the office until I can behave myself?"

Hawkeye did not return the small smile that he gave her, so he let it fade from his lips. He looked down at his hands awkwardly, trying to force out what he wanted to say. "I need to keep busy, Riza. I need distraction and noise to keep me from dwelling. The flashbacks . . . they'll pass. They always do. I don't think that staying home alone is going to help me any."

"Then don't stay home. Go on a real vacation. Get out of town, take the train somewhere for a while. Clear your head."

"I'm fine, Riza."

The Lieutenant looked at him for a moment silently, carefully choosing her words. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a card and offered it to the Colonel. "Major Armstrong came to me a few days ago. He gave me the name of the psychiatrist that the military made him see when he was sent home from Ishbal. Dr. Kolt. He thinks that you should call him."

The Colonel froze, then slowly took the card. He raised his gaze to look at her.

"Do you agree with him?" he rasped breathlessly, a desperate sort of horror widening his eyes. Horror, Hawkeye knew, because she had just voiced a concern that had been plaguing his mind recently. He feared his own potential instability, and feared even more that those around him could see it too. "Do you think I'm crazy? Is that what you think?"

Hawkeye stood, not looking at him. "I think that you need a vacation." She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye when he didn't say anything further. His head was bent over his desk, his expression defeated. She had blatantly dodged the question, but he did not pursue it. Perhaps he did not want to know what she really thought of his mental status.

"Go home, sir. It's been a long day."

Mustang took a steadying breath and nodded. He got to his feet and made for the door without preamble, pointedly not looking at her. When he got to the threshold he paused and half turned as if he would say something, but then he shook his head and disappeared into the hallway.

Alone now, Hawkeye picked up her coat and draped it over her arm. Her hand shook slightly as she flipped off the lights and closed the door, but she quelled it quickly.

He would be fine. He was just tired.

That's all.

* * *

Roy Mustang sat placidly next to the window, using what sunlight was left in the late afternoon to read. It wasn't a particularly great book, but it had its good parts and he had nothing else to read. He'd fully expected to be at his destination last night, but he'd slept though the stop. That was a recurring problem with him when it came to riding the train. At first he'd been pissed and intended to get off at the next stop, but then he thought, _why bother?_

Hawkeye's words had bothered him. She was right; he needed to get out of Central for a while . . . "Clear his head," as she'd put it. There was nowhere that he really wanted to visit, though. He had no attraction to tourism, nor did he really feel like mingling in bars. Still, he'd heard good things about the city Aquroya and so he headed east. Aquroya, though, had come and gone during the night and after his initial irritation, he just shrugged and continued east to wherever the train would take him. In another day he'd be in Youswell, the last city to the east. The end of the line. He wasn't sure what he would do then. He certainly did NOT want to stay there.

Perhaps he'd rent a car and keep going east.

East. Toward Ishbal.

It hadn't occurred to him until a few hours ago that his musing thoughts of returning to Ishbal were becoming serious intentions. He had just been sitting there, reading quietly as the train rumbled down the track—

— _Then the wooden floor became desert sands and the walls became fire. Men screamed around him as flames consumed them. Buildings collapsed with deafening roars, destroying homes and families. Children shrieked as they writhed among the burning rubble, slowly being cooked alive and corrupting the night air with the stench of scorched flesh and hair. Tears streamed from his eyes as he picked off the injured Ishbalans one by one, snuffing their lives with fire._

_Mustang snapped his fingers as rapidly as he could, targeting individuals, trying to kill them quickly because he didn't want them to suffer, didn't want them to scream anymore. He wanted to make the pain stop, he wanted everything to stop. He sobbed as well-aimed jets of pure fire struck his victims—yes, VICTIMS—and they stopped shrieking, stopped writhing, stopped moving. Blew them apart, flaming pieces of children charring at his feet. Chunks of meat everywhere. Begging, pleading, and always the screaming. It was kindness, wasn't it? To kill them quickly? Yes. Yes, of course. Better to end it by tearing them to bits then to let them burn slowly. Better to end it. Just do it. Don't listen to the screaming. Just follow orders. Do your job, Roy. Oh, God. There are so many of them. I can't get them all quickly. So many. It's kindness to kill them swiftly, no suffering, no, no, no never fast enough they suffer anyway I can't get them all and the screaming the fire it's everywhere I can't think and I'm just following orders oh god why am I here what am I doing this is wrong they're just kids I'm a monster a murderer a devil and I can't get them all they're burning because of me and I can't end it quickly enough oh god I can hear them screaming screaming screaming crying oh god I can't—_

He'd barely made it to the train's water closet before he vomited, trembling and using all of his willpower to keep from weeping.

He'd recovered himself fairly quickly and went back to his seat, but the flashback left him with an odd feeling. He had to go to Ishbal. Perhaps it had been his intention from the beginning to go to Ishbal. Maybe part of him purposefully slept through his stop at Aquroya. What he would do once he got there, he didn't know.

Well, part of him _did_ know, but he didn't want to think about it.

_. . . Maybe I _am_ going insane . . ._

Regardless, he was still going to be on the train for another day at least. He had time to think about it.

Damn. He really wished that he'd thought to bring a different book. The one he had was getting annoying. He'd gotten off to get a newspaper a few stops back, but he'd already read most of the articles and had gotten frustrated halfway through the word puzzles. With a sigh he picked up the paper again as the train slowed to a stop. He vaguely wondered where they were, but he didn't care enough to ask the small group of people who boarded. Mustang's train car had been mostly empty before this stop, but a few of the passengers took their seats near him. Although the silence had been nice for a while, he was glad to hear the bubbles of conversation filling the air. It was comforting. He listened to snatches of conversation as he started to work on the puzzles in the newspaper again, waiting for the train to start moving again.

" . . . And went to his room. Just like that! The nerve of that guy . . ."

" . . . You know? Like I said before, the political backbone of this country is going to hell . . ."

" . . . Brother, do you want to play cards? I bet I can win this time!"

Mustang paused as he heard those last words. He knew that voice. Tentatively he peeked over the edge of his paper and cursed. A very tall figure wearing full body armor was sitting a few seats away. Alphonse Elric. It wasn't that Mustang disliked the kid, but where there's Al, there's always—

"Like hell you can! I can whip your tin butt any day! Deal the cards!"

Edward Elric. Great. Mustang couldn't see the infamous Fullmetal Alchemist because of the height of the seat in comparison to the kid's short stature, but there was no doubt that it was him. The brothers were sitting across from each other on the other side of the train a few seats toward the front of the car, Al facing toward Mustang and Ed—presumably—facing opposite. Mustang looked at them from around the corner of his paper—hoping to that they didn't see him—but just then Al's head turned.

Mustang froze. With his expressionless metal face it was hard to tell exactly where Al was looking, but Mustang swore that he could feel his gaze and after a moment he was sure of it.

"Hey, brother, look! It's—" Al began, sounding pleasantly surprised, but he stopped when Mustang shook his head and gestured frantically for him to shut up. Again, the Colonel did not dislike Alphonse . . . he didn't dislike the pipsqueak either, really . . . but he was just not in the mood to deal with the little blond hellion at the moment. Luckily, Al took the hint and stopped talking.

"What? Look where?" Ed asked, his curiosity piqued. The Fullmetal Alchemist raised himself onto his knees and looked over the back of his seat. Mustang quickly put the paper in front of his face and groaned his exasperation.

"Oh. Uh. Nothing, brother. I thought I saw something. Never mind. Let's just play."

"Hey, wait, isn't that . . . ?"

"I'm discarding two cards."

"I think that's the Colonel."

"Come on, Ed, just hurry up and discard."

. . . Well, at least Al had_ tried_ to keep Mustang incognito.

"HEY, COLONEL!"

Mustang sighed loudly but did not lower the paper.

"Yep. It's him."

Mustang dropped his paper as he heard the two approach and nodded to them. If he had to talk to them, he might as well be civil. Ed was grinning his typical cock-sure grin that—while seeming outwardly friendly—always seemed to scream, "Eat shit and die, Mustang," but as he got closer the grin faded and morphed into mild confusion.

"What the hell happened to you? You look like crap," Ed said, looking the man up and down as he sat on the bench opposite him.

"Ed!" Al scolded, as always scandalized by his brother's bluntness. The Colonel looked up at the armored child. Al sketched an awkward little bow of apology and then sat next to his brother. "Hello, Colonel. What are you doing so far east?"

"Vacation. It seems that my underlings thought I needed a break. Lieutenant Hawkeye was adamant that I take some time off."

"You do look very worn out, Colonel" Al admitted, sounding both concerned and sheepish.

"You look _dead_," Ed supplied, ignoring the glare that Al threw his way.

The Colonel was well aware of how bad he looked. His eyes were sunken and bloodshot from lack of consistent sleep, and looked heavily shadowed in comparison to the grayish pallor of his face. His face itself—which had never really lost its boyishness—was suddenly more angular, his cheeks becoming hollow from the weight he'd lost. He hadn't been eating regularly for the past several weeks, and he was even beginning to notice that his shirts were looser in the shoulders than they had been not too long ago. Ed was not wrong in saying that he looked dead.

The Colonel smirked softly, uninsulted. "And why are you here, Fullmetal? Slacking off as usual?"

"Actually, _Colonel_, we were following a lead in Merka. It turned out to be a big hoax, but since we're over here anyway we figured that we'd stop in Youswell before heading back to Resembool."

"Brother broke his automail again. He just wants to stall in Youswell before he has to face Winry and beg her to fix it because he knows she's gonna be mad," Al interjected, a certain amused smugness in his voice.

"You don't have to tell him _everything_," Ed snapped, his shoulders slumping a little. "Besides, I wanted to go to Youswell anyway. We promised to come back because we never did get around to evaluating the mines for them. Where are you stopping?"

"Youswell. I'm going farther east, though, so I'll need to rent or borrow a car from someone in town."

"Where are you going?"

The Colonel looked at Ed for a moment. The kid—while still asserting himself with his cocky posture and quirked eyebrow—was looking increasingly unsettled. He couldn't possibly know that the Colonel was intending to go to Ishbal, but he certainly sensed that something wasn't quite right. As bullheaded as Ed was, both he and his brother were shockingly intuitive.

"East," was all that the Colonel said, and Ed's air of wariness increased with just that one word. Ed didn't say anything further, but the wheels in his head were turning. Al, too, held a calculating silence for a moment before saying:

"Well, it looks like we're traveling together, at least until Youswell . . . Do you want to play cards with us, Colonel?"

Both Mustang and Ed looked at Alphonse with mild surprise at the invitation, but then Ed shrugged and smiled.

"Yeah. It'll be more fun with three people."

"I suppose. I have nothing better to do."

"Great!" Alphonse said as he pulled the cards from his hollow chest cavity and shuffled them.

Al dealt the cards like a professional, flicking his wrist with a smooth and rapid motion that could only have come from all the hours that he and his brother spent playing cards on the train. Mustang looked down at his hand expressionlessly. Nice. Good hand.

"Discarding two," Ed began.

"Discarding one," Mustang followed.

"Dealer takes one, also," Al finished. "Lay 'em out, what do you have?"

Ed put down his two pair, Al his three aces, and Mustang his full house.

"Read 'em and weep, boys," the Colonel bragged as Ed gave a surprisingly good-natured groan.

"Fine then, you deal," the young Alchemist said, taking the cards from Al and slapping them down on the bench next to Mustang. He shuffled and dealt the cards, noticing that Ed was only using his left hand to pick up the cards he was dealt.

"So, Fullmetal, you say you broke your automail again. How'd you manage it _this_ time?"

Ed sighed and shot a dirty look at Al before answering in a low, barely audible mutter, his face flushing slightly. Al giggled as quietly as he was able. Mustang could tell that this was going to be good.

"What was that? I can't hear you, Fullmetal. You'll have to speak up."

"_I got hit with a frying pan_!"

There was a silence as Mustang absorbed that statement, then:

"_What?_"

"This person back in Merka . . ." Ed began reluctantly. "Discarding three cards."

"What _kind_ of person was it, Ed?" Al asked, leering at his brother, "I forget."

"An _old_ _woman_. A _really _oldwoman, okay? Jeez."

"He told her that her cooking stank. Discarding two."

"Discarding one. You should really be more polite, Fullmetal."

"She was a crazy person! Look!" Ed pulled back his sleeve to show Mustang his battle wound. The metal hand was bent at an odd angle, a large crack running up from his wrist. Mustang whistled, equally impressed and amused. "Just think if this had been a real hand! That psycho hag hit me and then chased me half a block before I lost her."

"I've never seen him run so fast. It was kind of scary… but also _really _funny."

Mustang chuckled, highly entertained by the young blonde's indignance. Ed glowered for a moment, then smiled evilly and laid down his cards. "Yuk it up, sparky. Three queens. Bet you can't beat that."

" . . . _Sparky_?"

The Colonel was surprised by the playful jab, but also a little appreciative of it. Ed would never hava said something so informal in the office, but here on the train . . . while playing cards . . . off duty . . . the kid had just created a bridge of casualness between them that Mustang had never even thought about creating. It was almost touching. Almost. Regardless, he suddenly felt much more at ease.

Al giggled again as Mustang smiled and shook his head, then they both revealed their losing hands.

Ed dealt the cards and after discarding and came up victorious again, slaughtering his opponents with a straight. He gave a hoot of triumph and smacked Al's arm in celebration. "Too bad we aren't playing for money, I'd take you both for all you're worth!" he crowed.

"You already took all of my money the last time we played," Al half-pouted, collecting the cards to shuffle them.

"Don't get cocky, little one. The game has hardly begun," Mustang said evenly, enjoying the way Ed bristled at the word "little".

"Oh! Now it's _war_. You are going _down_," Ed declared, practically snatching each card from Al as he dealt them.

* * *

Mustang won that hand and the next, which only made the blond scoff and loudly throw around accusations of cheating. After that, Al had a winning streak that he played off gracefully, pointedly not bragging about his skillful luck. When Ed complained, Al looked down at him and said, "What can I say, brother? I have the ultimate poker-face."

Mustang chuckled at that and Al beamed at him happily. Al was glad that he and Brother had run into the Colonel. The man looked like he could use some cheering up and—at least for the moment—they were all getting along pretty well. Al had been shocked when he'd gotten a close look at Mustang on the train. He looked so tired and sad. He wanted to ask what was wrong, but he knew that he wouldn't get an answer.

Ed, too, was very aware that Mustang had a problem. Al noticed him watching Mustang closely, his huge golden eyes analyzing and calculating over the top of his cards. A few times they'd caught each other's gaze and Ed made it clear without any words at all that he was both curious and concerned. Mustang, of course, was unaware of the siblings' tacit communication.

For the moment though, Mustang was smiling and bantering. That, at least, was good.

"Looks like your brother has beaten us again, Fullmetal. Where's the war you promised?" Mustang smirked, leaning back on the bench.

"It's coming, alright!? He's kicking your ass too, you know, so don't be so smug."

"Now, don't be a sore loser, Brother. I usually never win, so I don't know what you're complaining about."

"You should set him on fire, Colonel. He can't play cards if he's melted."

"You wish!" Al shot back, laughing, "Just try it. I'll still put you to shame."

"Come on, burn him!"

The Colonel shot a look at Ed that wiped the smile off his face. Mustang had become suddenly pale, his black eyes wide.

"Colonel?" Ed ventured, his brow knitted.

Mustang was frozen, his frightened gaze fixed on Ed. Al reached his hand forward and gently touched his shoulder. He jerked away as if shocked and got to his feet shakily.

"I . . . I, uh . . . excuse me," he stammered, and walked hurriedly from the car.

Al looked over at Ed who was staring after Mustang, obviously shocked and unsettled.

"What was that about?" Ed wondered aloud.

There was a space of silence between them.

"Brother, there's something really wrong with him."

"I know, Al," Ed chewed his thumbnail for a moment, thinking. "Maybe he's sick."

"He's more than just sick."

"Yeah . . . The way he looked at me just now reminded me of the time we battled for my assessment. He hesitated at the end instead of finishing me off. He just froze. He looked so . . . haunted. I asked him about it later, but he kind of dodged the question and started talking about Ishbal."

"Do you think this has something to do with the war?"

"No. I dunno, maybe. He _is_ going east."

"To Ishbal?"

"Maybe."

Al thought for a minute and then said in a lighter tone, "Or maybe he just really needs a vacation. His job isn't easy."

Ed nodded slowly, but Al could tell that he didn't think that was the case at all. Truth be told, neither did Al, but he was more than willing to be optimistic. Ed turned his head and looked toward the door that Mustang had gone through. "We should check on him."

"I'll go. I think he'd be more willing to talk to me than to you."

Ed looked as if he was going to be offended for a moment, but then he shrugged it off. "You're right," he admitted.

Al stood and went to the door cautiously. He opened it and moved softly into the small hallway that connected the two train cars. Before opening the door to the adjacent car, Al looked through the tiny window in it. The window revealed the car to be mostly empty, the rows of benches shadowed by the setting sun outside the windows, staining the wood shades of red, orange, and purple. The car was lifeless and silent. In fact, the only person in there was a man leaning against the wall with his head in his hands.

Al watched him silently through the window, his non-existent heart aching as he watched the Colonel suffer. Mustang's face was buried in his hands, his nails digging slightly into his forehead. His shoulders twitched and heaved with hyperventilation and his whole body shook like a leaf in a windstorm. Al stayed in the hallway awkwardly, unsure of what to do or say once he entered the car and approached the man. But then Mustang gave a shuddering sigh and slid his hands slowly down his face until just his mouth was covered. He was impossibly pale, his skin looked as white as paper and just as fragile. He steadied himself, eyes closed and jaw clenched. When he opened his eyes they were hollow and watery. He wiped them quickly with his sleeve and brushed his hair out of his face, taking a deep breath.

"Colonel?" Al ventured, a little frightened.

The man started violently, a momentary terror flooding his body as he pressed himself back against the wall. It took him a moment to recognize Al, and when he did he exhaled a curse and turned away from him, clearly embarrassed.

"Are . . . are you okay, sir?"

Mustang made a low, bitter sound that was halfway between a laugh and a moan and wiped his face again. "Yeah, I'm great."

"You can tell me. I won't tell Brother if you don't want me to."

The man chewed his lip and did not reply.

"Please, sir . . . If something is wrong—"

"I'm fine, Alphonse. Really." Mustang said lowly, not looking up. "A lot of the soldiers who came back from Ishbal have nightmares and flashbacks of the war and I just happen to be one of them. I re-experience things that I want to forget and I freak out a little sometimes. It's nothing. I'm dealing with it."

"Are you?"

Mustang rounded on the boy, the fear and sadness in his eyes burning away into unsubstantiated anger. "Yes. I am."

"You're not. Ed and I can both see that you aren't taking care of yourself. I'm guessing that's why Hawkeye made you go on vacation."

"I'm _tired_, Alphonse!" the Colonel snapped, but he then shook his head, his shoulders slumping. When he spoke again it was in a soft, bitter voice that Al had never heard before. "I've been having more flashbacks lately. A lot more. For the last several weeks I haven't slept more than twenty minutes at a time, I throw up everything I manage to force down, I'm dizzy half the time, I'm irritated _all_ the time, my head is killing me and my underlings want me in therapy because they think I'm going mad."

Mustang's last word rang through the empty car for a moment before Al worked up the courage to ask:

"Do _you_ think you're going mad?"

"Sometimes . . . yes," the Colonel whispered, his voice breaking ever so slightly as he made this admission that Al could tell he had never confessed before, even to himself. Al was speechless. What could he say to that? Colonel Roy Mustang, the stoic Flame Alchemist with the sharp wit and the sharper tongue had just bared his soul to a child in a tin can who had no idea what to say to him.

Finding no words, Al cautiously reached for the Colonel's shoulder and gripped it firmly. Mustang tolerated it for a moment, but Al could not tell whether or not he took any comfort from it. After a moment, Mustang shrugged off his hand as politely as he could manage and straightened. He had mastered himself and was again the Flame, all shadows of despair gone from his malnourished face.

"You should go back to your brother. He's probably dying of curiosity."

"I wont tell him anything."

"I don't care what you do."

Al walked over to the door and opened it, but the Colonel made no move to follow him.

"Coming?"

"No." There was a dismissal in his tone that Al recognized immediately. He gave a low bow and went back to his brother, looking over his shoulder only once. The Colonel was standing in the middle of the aisle, watching the blur of trees as the train roared past them, the fading light casting his face in deep shadow.


	2. Take Care, Boys

Ed jumped off the train and stretched his arms high over his head, his mouth stretching open in a huge yawn. Youswell. Finally. Ed enjoyed riding trains in general, but lately it seemed that he was spending entirely too much time on the rails. The train had been delayed by a fallen tree the night before, so instead of getting to Youswell early in the morning they had arrived just before noon. Worse, the long train ride was made longer with puzzlement and concern for the Colonel.

Mustang had made himself scarce for most of yesterday. Ed questioned Al after he'd spoken to him in the other train car, but his little brother didn't say much. He said that the Colonel was tired and stressed-out, but hinted that there was something else going on that he didn't want to talk about. Ed respected Al's desire to keep the Colonel's privacy, which meant that he bugged and nagged Al for hours to tell him the dirty details. Al was an absolute wall when he wanted to be, so Ed eventually gave up and they started playing cards again. Hours later Ed had slept, sprawled across the bench with his head resting on Al's lap and had awoken in the middle of the night to see the Colonel lounging once more on the bench opposite. He was dead-to-the-world asleep, his head pillowed in his arms that rested on the windowsill. Also on the windowsill was a near-empty bottle of liquor. Ed had sleepily looked up at Al in askance, but he'd just shaken his great metal head sadly and kept his mouth shut. The next morning, Mustang was acting if nothing at all had happened.

"Fullmetal, think fast."

Ed barely turned in time to catch a suitcase that Mustang tossed down at him from the train. He threw the case down with a curse and glared up at his superior.

"What do I look like, a pack mule?" He shouted up at him angrily, both annoyed and relieved to see the smallest hint of a smile playing on the man's lips.

"You said it, not me."

Whatever had happened to the Colonel last night seemed to have no lasting effects. True, he was not really acting _quite_ like himself, but at least he was bantering and abusing Ed again. He seemed in fairly high spirits in spite of how shabby and exhausted he looked. The man was not necessarily "happy" but he was animated, energized as if he had made a decision that had been plaguing him for a long time. Whatever it was, Ed was more than willing to pretend that everything was normal.

Mustang jumped down from the train, Al following behind with Ed's bags slung over his shoulder. The Colonel's eyes wandered around at the quiet town, taking it in. As far as Ed knew he'd never been to Youswell and any stranger of the place would declare it a ghost town right off. Ed himself had made that mistake, but soon learned that, while the town was small in both population and actual size, the residents were big-hearted once they got to know you.

"Hey! Brother, look! It's—"

"ED!"

The young alchemist was suddenly tackled from behind, strong arms encircling him and squeezing the air from his lungs. A young boy with light brown hair and a dust-covered face hugged Ed as hard as he was able which, if one considered the sound of Ed gasping for breath, was pretty hard. Al laughed at the sight, setting down Ed's bags. Mustang smirked down at them with eyebrows raised and arms crossed, obviously amused.

"_Can't. Breathe_. _ Kyle_." Ed managed, shoving off the boy. Ed coughed and straightened his jacket, glowering at the boy who smiled in return before turning to Al.

"Hi, Al!" Kyle greeted eagerly as he bounced over to him.

"Kyle, it's great to see you! Wow, you've grown a lot. I bet you're taller than brother!"

"HE IS NOT!"

Al cackled, pleased with Ed's reaction. He stooped down and hugged Kyle tightly, as always careful to keep the spikes and other sharp parts of his armor out of the way.

"Why didn't you send word that you were going to be in town?" Kyle demanded, trying to sound angry and failing.

"It was a last-minute decision." Al replied, "And it's always fun to surprise people."

"Ha! Wait till dad finds out that you're here! Let's go tell him!" Kyle said excitedly, grabbing Al's hand and leading him toward the inn at a run.

"Hey, wait!" Ed yelled after them, not about to be left behind. He looked over his shoulder to see if the Colonel was going to follow them but he was nowhere in sight. Ed scanned the area curiously, wondering where he'd gone.

"Come on, brother!"

"I'm coming, jeez!" He called back, hefting Mustang's suitcase (although he considered leaving it) and trotting after Kyle and his brother.

On the outside, the inn looked exactly as they had left it, cozy and inviting. The inside, though, had changed considerably. Not to say that it looked ritzy or snobbish, but there was a newness to it that definitely spoke of a heightened income. Ed looked around in awe at the new tables of finely stained oak, at the bright brass knobs on the doors and corners of the bar. Even the wooden floor was polished to an impossible sheen. A heavy hand clapped Ed on the shoulder and he looked up to see Kyle's father, Halling beaming down at him.

"Halling . . . it's beautiful!"

Halling smiled hugely, obviously pleased that Ed approved of the changes made to the inn. It was because of Ed that such modifications could be made, so the fact that he liked it so much must have been especially satisfying for Halling. Ed embraced the big man and asked about business. The innkeeper/coalminer was more than happy to tell Ed how much more business they were getting now that the town had enough money to sustain itself and attract tourism. Apparently some of the miners had discovered a cave entrance full of colorful crystals and they had made a killing giving tours to curiosity-seekers. Because of this, the inn was getting more customers and the town itself was blossoming.

Ed was ecstatic to hear how well everyone was doing. He looked around to see if Al had heard the news and his eyes landed on Mustang.

The Colonel was standing next to the bar, engaged in a friendly conversation with a man that Ed recognized, but could not remember the name of. Mustang was leaning with his elbows on the bar casually as he spoke. Although Ed could not hear what was being said, it was apparent that the pair were making a deal of some kind. It was definitely an informal sort of deal going from the smiles they exchanged as they shook hands. The man handed Mustang something that Ed couldn't quite make out and the Colonel handed back a generous roll of cash.

The two continued to talk for a moment and then Mustang raised his head, spotting the young alchemist. He turned back to the man, jutting his thumb at Ed as he spoke. The other man looked up and, spying Ed, grinned and waved. Ed waved back, wondering what the two men were discussing. Curiously, Ed made to walk over to the pair but Halling gripped his shoulder and steered him toward the back of the inn to the flight of steps that lead up to the rooms, insisting that Ed see how much nicer the beds were now. Ed gave a mild protest, but they ran in to Al and Kyle in the stairwell and he was immediately distracted.

Halling and Kyle proudly showed the brothers the rooms of the inn and then took them to other parts of the small town, showing off all of the improvements. The town had not been made gaudy by any means. They had not gone overboard at all and had simply fixed all that needed fixing, adding only a few luxuries. Dilapidated buildings had been rebuilt, some of the dirt roads had been paved with stones, and even the coalmines had new, safety-oriented features. It was all very thrilling to Ed to think that none of this would have happened without his aid. For one of the first times in his life Ed could plainly see that his efforts to do good were successful. It was both an intoxicating and sobering feeling.

Ed and Al were shown most of the town and were greeted joyously by all who recognized them. After a while though, exhausted, Ed begged to be shown a room at the inn to get some sleep. Trains are not the most restful of places to sleep, and he'd spent many nights roaring down the tracks as of late. Halling gave a booming laugh and took them back to the inn, having already ordered that a room be set up for them.

The man that Mustang had been speaking to earlier carried their bags up for them and showed them the room. Ed threw himself gratefully onto the bed, flinging his flesh arm over his eyes with a sigh. Al took the bags from the man—who Ed now remembered was named Polon—and thanked him, bowing politely.

"Rest well, you two, because I'm sure that the people of Youswell will be eager to celebrate your visit tonight!" He gave them a little wave and backed out of the door, then: "Oh, I almost forgot. This is from your traveling companion, Roy Mustang."

Ed pushed himself up onto his elbows and watched as Al took a folded piece of paper from Polon. Polon waved again and departed, Al closing the door softly behind him.

"What is it?" Ed asked.

"A note from the Colonel." Al handed it over and Ed.

It said: _Take care, boys. –Roy _

Ed looked up at his brother. "Well, that's awfully cryptic. I guess he was anxious to keep going east. I saw him talking to Polon earlier, I bet he rented out his car."

"He left his luggage."

Ed looked over at the Colonel's suitcase, a sudden and incomprehensible foreboding clutching at his insides for a brief moment. He shook it off.

"I guess he forgot it. Man, what is _up_ with him?" He looked at Al accusingly as he asked the question.

"I'm not telling you anything."

"Come on. If something is wrong, I should know. Maybe I can help. Or at least make fun of him."

"See? That's why I wont tell you."

"Did he _tell_ you not to tell me?"

"No . . ."

"Then tell me!"

Al hesitated, obviously torn. Then he said, a little bitingly, "You know how you get those dreams? Those nightmares about mom and . . . that night? The ones that are so bad that you can't stop crying for hours sometimes?"

Ed sat up, his face wary and guarded. He looked a little hurt at the savage tones in his brother's voice. "Yeah . . . "

"It's like that for him, too. Only it's about Ishbal instead of mom. And it's during the day when he's awake, too, not just at night."

Ed lowered his eyes, his jaw working. "Is that what happened on the train?"

"Yeah. He said that he's had these visions ever since Ishbal, but lately they've been really bad and happening all the time. He thinks he's losing his mind. He said that his underlings were telling him to get psychological help, but I don't think that he liked the idea."

Ed was blown away. He'd thought that perhaps Mustang had been ill, or was depressed about getting dumped by his girl, or something stupid like that . . . He'd never expected Mustang's problem to be psychological. Not the stoic, rock hard man who Ed alternately hated and admired. Not the strong-minded, strong-willed Colonel who could charm as easily as he could piss off. Not him.

"Did he tell you where he was headed?"

"No."

Ed ran his hand through his hair, thinking. Mustang had told him once that he'd tried to kill himself after being ordered to execute the Rockbell doctors in Ishbal. He had been driven to the edge that night, but could he be driven there again? He certainly looked and acted as if he were ready to crack.

"What are you thinking, brother?" Al asked

"I'm thinking that we should follow Mustang east."

"You mean spy on him?"

"Are you saying that you think we shouldn't?"

Al paused for a moment. "No. We should keep an eye on him."

"You're damn right we should. Besides, he's always keeping tabs on us. We can call this payback."

Al gave a small laugh that held little humor. Ed sighed and stood up. Well, there went his plans to have a long catnap.

The pair went back downstairs and started asking around to see if anyone was willing to give them a lift eastward. They didn't know how far east they needed to go, so when they were asked, they said no further than the border. The Amestris border with Ishbal was over half a day's journey away, so they were hard pressed to find any willing drivers, but finally a middle-aged couple stepped forward. They were tourists heading northeast but were willing to take a detour through the desert, especially when they heard that Ed was the Hero of Youswell. Like many tourists, they were easily star-struck and eager to please.

Within the hour they were on the road again and Ed was dozing in the backseat with his head propped on Al's shoulder, snoring softly.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Roy drummed the steering wheel restlessly. He didn't know what he was doing. He was going to Ishbal, yes, and he knew _why_ he was going, but he didn't know what he'd do when he got there. What should he do, go up to the first Ishbalan he saw and say "I'm sorry"?

They would probably kill him on sight . . . not that he didn't deserve it. He had left Youswell half-expecting to die in Ishbal. He was the enemy of an entire country; he had single-handedly ruined hundreds of lives. He deserved to be killed by them on their own soil.

He'd begun to realize that he would probably never make it back to Central alive about halfway through a bottle of scotch on the train. He had been sitting across from the boys, watching Ed sleep and trying to ignore the uncomfortable way that Al was looking at him when it occurred to him. It made perfect sense. He'd almost laughed, it was so simple. So inevitable. So desperately, joyously final. He would offer himself to them. He would give the nation of Ishbal his life in exchange for their forgiveness. Wasn't that equivalent exchange, even if only in the symbolic sense?

What if they didn't kill him, though? What if they just shunned him—or worse—ignored him entirely? They didn't owe him anything, not even death . . . how could he even ask for forgiveness?

His mind raced with questions and half-baked scenarios, all erratic and incomplete. He was jittery, manic even, as he both dreaded and yearned for his arrival in Ishbal. He would go to the westernmost city, the name of which he could never remember although he could see it clearly in his head every night as it burned to the ground. It had been the first community that he'd destroyed with his Red Stone ring, before he'd learned to compensate for the amplification that it offered him. He had been ordered to eradicate the town, but he'd only meant to set a few fires and scare them into running . . .

The city was gone by morning, nearly every inhabitant either dead or praying for death. He'd heard recently, though, that the city was in the process of being rebuilt. There was a small tribe of Ishbalans there, many of whom were survivors of the Flame Alchemist's onslaught. He would go to them and give them a chance at revenge. It was honorable. It was the right thing to do. Of course it was.

Mustang had been driving for hours. He'd passed the border a while back and the dirt road that he'd been traveling on was quickly being overrun by desert sand. He'd have to stop the car and walk soon. Already the sand was making it difficult to drive, but soon it would be downright impossible. In fact—the Colonel looked around—the road was almost gone entirely. He pulled over and got out, gasping as the cold desert wind whipped around him. He pulled his traveling cloak—the only thing he'd taken from his suitcase before leaving it behind—from the backseat and wrapped it tightly around him. He tossed the car key onto the floorboard of the driver's seat and closed the door.

It was going to be a long walk.

He took a deep breath and continued eastward, the setting sun at his back. The sands he trudged through were cast in red light and his shadow stretched over them like a long black scar, making him feel even more unwelcome in this country that he had set ablaze so many years ago. He hugged his long, graphite-colored cloak tighter, both against the cold outside and the cold that was settling in the pit of his stomach.

Maybe he was making a mistake. Relations between Amestris and Ishbal were still awful, but they were improving. There had been no major uprisings for months and it was said that even a few Amestrisian tourists had been allowed to pass though Ishbal on their way to Xing. They had not been shown kindness by the Ishbalans, but they had not been harmed, either. What if Roy's sudden appearance back at the scene of his crimes was construed as an act of war? What if spies had seen him already and were running to their leaders, shouting that one of the Alchemic Terrorists had returned to finish what he'd begun?

No. He was being paranoid. His sojourn to Ishbal would not have a political impact, surely. He would make it clear that he was not here to represent his country—he wasn't so arrogant as that—but only for his own salvation.

Roy stopped walking abruptly and listened. He'd heard something. It had been faint, masked by the hissing of the wind over the cool sand, but he'd heard it: a shuffling sound, and then a click of metal. Someone was behind him, and it sounded as if they had just cocked a gun.

"Turn around." Said the someone, "Slowly, please."

Mustang did as he was told, holding his hands up to show that he was unarmed. There were two Ishbalan men standing behind him, the one holding the gun middle-aged and the other quite a bit younger. The gun was not pointed directly at Mustang, but off to the side as more of a warning than an outward threat, so the Colonel felt it safe to put his hands down at his side.

"Passing through, traveler?" The older man asked, clearly establishing himself as in charge of the situation.

For a moment Mustang was baffled. No shouting? No anger? No violence? It hadn't occurred to him before that he might not be recognized, but now it was clear to him that he probably wouldn't be. He was out of uniform, for one. His hair was a bit longer, his face had thinned out a little as he aged and then had thinned out more over the past few weeks . . . of course they didn't recognize him. He felt like an idiot to assume that they would.

Mustang gave a polite bow in the Ishbalan fashion, with his palms pressed together, "I'm heading to your western city."

"Dinaal, be still." The younger man said quietly, looking down over his shoulder. Only then did Mustang see the girl. She was young, probably not even ten yet. She was hiding behind the young man, peeking around him so that only half of her face was visible, her large, crimson-irised eye wide with wonder and curiosity. She was carrying a dead rabbit by the ears. The three of them must have been out hunting. When she saw that Mustang was looking at her, she squeaked and disappeared behind the young man again.

"Saulblen? What business do you have there?"

"I would like to right some wrongs. I need to speak with your Elder."

The man looked at him scrutinizingly for a beat then rested the shotgun over his shoulder in a casual, yet powerful gesture. "We will escort you, then. The desert is not a kind place to strangers. Come." The man moved off in the lead and Mustang followed. The younger man, who was clearly not pleased with Roy's presence, came after with the girl in tow. Now that the girl was out from behind the young man, Roy could see her more clearly and his heart gave a silent wail of sorrow.

The entire left half of her face was scar tissue—the smooth, pale kind that can only be caused by fire. Her left eye was almost gone entirely; the upper and lower lids melted together and healed that way. The corner of her mouth, too, had fused shut and given her a permanent, lop-sided smirk.

"Don't stare." The young man warned in a whisper, his voice angry.

Roy looked away, sickened. He knew his own handiwork anywhere. She had been one of his victims and they didn't even know it.

They walked for perhaps another hour in near silence. The men spoke to each other briefly in the dying tongue of their country, but did not speak to Roy at all. He realized after about twenty minutes that he wasn't truly being escorted, but more like being taken captive. Of course, it was a polite, peaceful sort of captivity, but he couldn't shake the fact that the man in front of him was openly armed and the man behind him looked ready to tear him apart each time they made eye-contact. Only the girl was oblivious to the socio-political tension that had formed among the adults.

As they got nearer to the city, the Colonel began to recognize his surroundings. The stories were true; they had been rebuilding the city and making excellent progress. Many of the buildings were still just piles of scorched rocks and charred wood, but many others were fully erected to their former glory. The streets were clean of debris; rubble from the destroyed city had been removed, and desert-thriving plants were growing everywhere. It was a deeply beautiful sight to behold, not because the city itself was particularly breathtaking, but because Roy could see how much they had recovered from his attack.

As he looked around, though, he again became disheartened. For the size that the city had once been, the current population was desperately small. Not only that, but many of the people—nearly half it seemed—were marked by Roy's fire. Women with hands shriveled and disfigured by flames, old men with missing legs, and scars, scars, scars everywhere. It was like a leper colony, only for burn victims.

Everywhere he turned he saw signs of his sin.

Deeply upset by the eternal damage that he'd done to these people, the Colonel lowered his eyes and pretended not to see them. They stared at him as he passed, murmuring to one another. That, too, he ignored. He couldn't bear to see them or to hear them whisper "murderer" in one another's ears as they watched him pass. Did they know who he was? He had a feeling that some of them did, no matter how different he looked.

"Wait here." The older Ishbalan said to Roy as they approached a smallish structure with a curtain covering the doorway. The man pulled back the curtain and entered, leaving Roy alone with the young man and the girl. The girl soon ran off with a group of children, giggling and chanting playful rhymes. Now just the young man was with him, watching him carefully and standing too close for comfort.

Finally, after what seemed like ages, the curtain was pulled back and a shadowed figure gestured for the Colonel to enter. He did so with both wariness and gratitude. At first his surroundings were dark, but as his eyes became adjusted to the candle-lit room he was able to get his bearings. There were seven people in the room other than the Colonel, all of them sitting on the floor and all of them with their eyes glued to his every move.

"Please, sit." Said an old man with a long grey beard. He was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the room, a pot of smoking incense before him. No doubt, he was the Elder of this tribe. Roy immediately sat across from the man, wracking his brain for any memories of Ishbalan decorum. His mind faltered. The only thing he could remember was to never hand something over with your left hand. That, and how to bow properly. Lost on what else to do, he sketched a bow as humbly as he could manage.

The Elder smiled and returned the customary greeting. "What brings you to our land?" He asked, as carefully non-threatening as the other Ishbalan man had been.

Roy opened his mouth to speak and then shut it again. He didn't know what to say. He'd come all this way with a firm goal in mind, but he had no idea how to broach the subject. He was silent for a moment then took a deep breath, inhaling the earthy-floral scent of the incense. There was no delicate way to do this.

"I destroyed this city during the war. I am the Flame Alchemist."

The tension in the room, which had been present before Roy's declaration, was suddenly stifling. The other men sitting around the Elder gasped and cursed, bristling with rage. One of them looked ready to kill him on the spot, a strong-looking man with a varied burn scar covering most of his face and head. It was an immediate uproar of pain and anger. They cursed him, spat at him, and screamed at him, words like "monster" and "baby-killer" flying passionately from their lips. Roy sat with his head bent, taking it without complaint. He deserved it and so much more.

The Elder himself had made no visible reaction. He let the threats and verbal abuse continue for a moment, but then raised his hand in a tacit command to be quiet. The men fell silent, seething and trembling. One of them was even weeping, teeth clenched and bared as if it took all of his willpower to keep from attacking the man who had destroyed his home and the homes of everyone he knew.

"And what do you want?" The Elder asked evenly, something in his voice demanding that the Colonel meet his eyes. Hesitantly, he looked up and his coal-colored eyes were caught and held by the Elders own intimidatingly red ones.

The Colonel licked his lips nervously, "In exchange for your forgiveness, I will give you my life."

One of the men gave a derisive snort, another laughed outright.

"You cannot _give_ us your life, it is already forfeit." The man said, his voice slurred slightly by the old burn that ran from his nose, across his mouth, and down into the neckline of his tunic.

"Your life can never replace the ones that you stole." Another man growled and the others shouted their agreement, some of them getting to their feet as if ready to pounce on Roy if just given the word.

Roy's eyes remained locked with the Elder's, waiting for him to speak as the men scoffed and threw insults and painful truths down at the Colonel.

"Enough." The Elder said quietly and the men stilled, grudgingly lowering themselves back onto the rug to sit cross-legged. He took a calm breath and leaned forward to address Roy on a more personal level. "So," he began softly, without any emotion, "You are asking for us to forgive you for your transgressions, and then to take our revenge upon your body?"

"Yes."

"Hm. I do not know how things are done in your country, but we are nonviolent when we are not being threatened. We do not punish murder with murder."

The men exploded into a volley of protest. How could they NOT kill him? This had not been a mere killing, it had been genocide! He was a perversion to life itself, and an insult to the Lord Ishbala! He did not deserve to live! Sinner! Devil! Heretic! Blasphemer! Murderer, murderer, MURDERER!

"It is not our way!" The Elder roared, his anger finally showing through his façade of calm, although it was not directed at Roy.

"Please, Elder." Roy began, a raw sort of hysteria beginning to take him, "I'm giving myself to you. I belong to you. I am indebted to your people, all I ask—" but he was cut off by the back of someone's fist slamming him in the mouth. He fell sideways, his hand over his lips.

"Do not speak unless the Elder asks it of you." The man who had backhanded him hissed. Roy nodded after a moment of initial shock and averted his eyes. He was fighting the impulse to strike back, to fry the son of a bitch. But then he stopped. The man had a right to hit him. He deserved it. He deserved anything that they did to him.

Slowly he sat up, tasting blood as he waited for them to decide what to do with him.

They bickered back and forth, the issue of morality prevalent. Some of the other men reluctantly agreed that execution was not the way of Ishbala. Others pointed out that he should be made to suffer as they had suffered, should mourn as they mourned. The Elder was silent, listening to both sides of the debate while watching Roy carefully.

After a moment of arguing, one voice rang above the rest.

"_I want his hands_."

The others stopped and turned to the man who had spoken. He looked a little younger than the rest, probably around Roy's own age. He had not been as vocal as many of the others, but now when he spoke all paid attention. His eyes bored into Roy's with an almost painful intensity, but the Colonel did not dare to look away.

"You, Flame Alchemist, took everything from me. My wife, my child, my home, and my life." The man lifted up his arms, pulling back his sleeves to show the distorted, mangled stumps of what remained of his hands. Between both hands he had but five fingers left and the rest was thick layers of scars. "I was an artist. You have taken all happiness from my world. If alchemy is your art form, then I will take it from you. I will take your hands, I will make you feel one small piece of the pain that I feel each day, I will make sure that you can never do what you have done here to any other city."

All eyes were on Roy, waiting for him to respond. Slowly, he raised his hands and extended them to the man, his gaze steady. "My hands, my eyes, my tongue, my heart, anything. I am yours."

A hush fell over the group as they waited for the Elder to comment. A moment passed and then the Elder inclined his head. The terms had been accepted.


	3. Truly An Artist

((A/N: This chapter is pretty violent, YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED! Bwahahaha . . . ))

"It's FREEZING!" Ed whined as he and Al trudged through the sand. The tourist couple had taken them past the border, but then had gotten nervous and refused to drive any further into Ishbal. Al didn't really blame them. The sun was setting quickly and being in the middle of a desert in a hostile country at night was more than a little scary.

"Just keep walking, brother. We've walked across deserts before. I'm sure we'll come to a town eventually."

"Al, that's not nearly as comforting as you think it is."

True, the thought of going into an Ishbalan town and asking, "Hey, have you seen this guy anywhere? Why, yes, he IS the man who slaughtered your people during the war, funny you should ask…" was pretty intimidating. They decided not to think that far ahead and just focused on finding a town first. When they got there they'd decide how to best broach the subject of the Colonel and his whereabouts.

"Hey, look." Ed said, pointing to a black spot on the horizon.

Al looked down at his brother, the nagging, uncomfortable feeling of anxiety that they'd been battling all day back with a vengeance. It was the car that Mustang had borrowed.

The brothers ran to the car, both of them fully expecting to see Mustang lying in the front seat, blood spattered on the windows and a bullet hole in his temple. Maybe he'd just wanted to be in Ishbal when he committed the act; maybe he'd wanted to spill his own blood on the same land that he'd spilled others' on.

Ed approached the car and cautiously looked in the window. Al hung back, too afraid of what he might see.

"Empty." Ed called, relief evident in his voice. Ed tested the door latch and, finding it unlocked, opened it. "He left the keys in here."

"Maybe he didn't expect to need them anymore." Al suggested, a little more morbidly than he'd meant to.

"Or maybe he was captured. Look." Ed pointed to the ground. There were several sets of footprints left in the soft sand and, although they were faint because of the winds, Al felt that they couldn't have been there for much more than an hour.

"Well, at least we know we're on the right track." Ed said as lightly as he could, but his face betrayed concern.

"He'll be okay, brother."

"Pfft. Like I even care. I'm just curious, that's all. And he's always meddling into our business, so all we're doing is a little meddling of our own."

"Right." Al said, not convinced at all. "Come on, let's follow the prints."

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It was bad. Worse than any pain he'd ever felt. He knew it was going to be bad, but . . . god . . .

The man who had claimed his hands was named Jukaat. He was the Elder's son, which is why he'd been given the privilege of choosing Mustang's fate and executing it.

They sat together at a table with Roy's hand splayed out in front of the Ishbalan. It was the ultimate test of will for the Colonel to sit still and allow himself to be sliced open. The Ishbalans offered him nothing for the pain, but neither did they restrain him. Mustang tried hard not to struggle, but there is only so much that the human body can take before the instinct to protect oneself becomes too great to ignore. His entire body cried out for him to RUN, to make the pain go away . . . but he gritted his teeth and bore it, his face buried in one hand while the other was being carved and flayed.

If Jukaat had just chopped off his hands, perhaps it would not have been so bad, but the man did not want the hands as a trophy. He wanted to destroy them.

He'd driven a pick-like knife through the center of Roy's left hand to keep it from moving as he worked. Though Jukaat's old injuries kept him from being the artist that he once was, he could still use a knife and was going to make this punishment as artfully painful as he could.

The tips of Mustang's fingers were the first to go, taken one by one in a slow and methodical manner. His fingernails had been torn back, revealing raw and bloody flesh underneath, and then Jukaat had wedged the knife in the joint of the small knuckle of Roy's middle finger, twisting and slicing until the bone popped out of its socket like a bloody cork. The Colonel had managed to keep from screaming only by turning away and biting his split lip so hard that blood ran down his chin.

"You aren't watching." Jukaat chided as he worked the knife into the joint of his thumb with a sharp, wrenching movement. Roy screamed then, unable to hold back as he felt his hand being torn apart little by little. Still, gasping and crying out in agony, he turned his head obediently and watched Jukaat work, the urge to vomit rising. Jukaat made it clear before they started that he wanted Roy to watch so that he could fully appreciate what was being done to him. He wanted him to be aware of all five of his senses recoiling in terror and pain. He wanted him to see the gore, to smell the blood, to taste his own fear, to hear the cracking, grinding, tearing, squishing of his ravaged limb, and above all to feel everything as he had never felt before.

The man was truly an artist.

Roy obeyed the command as well as he was able, but more than once he could not help but look away, especially as Jukaat began removing entire fingers, delicately tearing bones and flesh apart and setting the pieces in a neat pile in front of Roy. Whenever Jukaat noticed that the Colonel was not watching, he would either command him to look or describe everything that he was doing in detail, speaking loudly so as to be heard over the Colonel's screams, which quickly became constant and hysterical.

"Now I'm peeling back the skin from your knuckle. The red on white is really very breathtaking. I can see your veins pumping, your muscles twitching impulsively every time I make a cut. It's almost beautiful, fire-demon . . . taking you apart."

Roy didn't know which was worse: the actual, searing, intolerable gore or the way that Jukaat described it to him. Even more terrible was that while Jukaat tried very valiantly to seem as if the mutilation didn't bother him—even tried to sound as if he enjoyed it from an artistic view—Roy could clearly hear the horror and nausea in the man's voice. Even through his own screaming and retching he could hear Jukaat's voice tremble and could see his ravaged hands shake as they sliced and tore at the broken Colonel. It was as if Roy had found yet another way to torture and scar Ishbalans. He couldn't even repent for his sins without doing them harm.

Jukaat was finishing up on Roy's left hand, leaning his weight on the blade to splinter through the bones of his wrist. Roy turned his head and gagged from the intensity of the pain that shot up his arm, making the corners of his vision go dark. He couldn't do this. He couldn't. He was weeping openly, unable to hold it back and not really caring. As Jukaat broke his wrist and tore away the remaining flesh he fell into a swoon and his body went limp. His head slammed onto the table, inches away from the mangled heap of his bone and flesh. He could feel the cooling blood on his forehead, the liquid quickly coagulating into a sticky, gelatine-like puddle.

"Delgat." Jukaat said over his shoulder, to a man standing outside the partially curtained door. Another man entered—presumably Delgat—but the Colonel didn't raise his head to look at him. Jukaat moved aside and the man grabbed Roy's arm, lifting it off the table none-too-gently. The next thing that registered in his mind was the smell of burning flesh, but it took him a moment to feel it. He cried out and tried to pull away from this new kind of pain, but his arm was held fast and the red-hot blade of a saber pressed tightly against the ragged hole where his hand used to be. He turned his head and dry heaved as his wound was cauterized, the all too familiar smell of scorched human slamming his over-taxed mind with images of writhing bodies and pillars of smoke.

Then for a moment he felt nothing. The darkness lurking at the corners of his vision crept forward and dragged him down into blissful unconsciousness. It was only for a moment but, oh, he wished that moment of numb nothingness would last forever. It didn't. His body's natural will to survive tore his mind from the blessed blackness and spat him back out onto the bloody table, his eyes struggling to focus on Jukaat and the hand . . . the stump . . . that the Ishbalan was bandaging tightly. The other man was gone, probably to re-heat the blade to cauterize the next amputation.

"I'm sorry . . ." Mustang rasped suddenly, his lips brushing against the sticky redness that covered the table. His voice was small and choked, barely audible. "God, I'm so sorry."

There was a pause as Jukaat tied off the bandage a little more roughly than was necessary, but the Colonel was too far-gone to care. He was barely clinging to consciousness as blood loss and bodily stress told him to just give up and die.

"Are you apologizing because you want me to stop?" Jukaat asked, a sharp edge of cruel mockery tainting his words.

" . . . No." The Colonel fought to sit upright again, his head spinning as he raised it from the table. Blood dripped from his face as he sat back, running sluggishly from just under his hairline, over his left eye, and down over his mouth. The Colonel shifted with effort and splayed his unravaged hand in front of Jukaat. "I w-want you to continue . . . I just want you to know that I didn't _want_ to kill your people."

"Then why did you?"

The question was posed softly; a sharp contrast to Jukaat's previous words, which had dripped with hatred. Now Jukaat sounded betrayed, anguished. The Colonel looked up at him, willing his eyes to focus through tears.

"I had to. _I swear_. I h-had to follow orders. I would _never_ . . ."

"But you did. You should have said no. Any good person would have said no."

Roy faltered. He had thought of refusing orders more than once, of telling his superiors "No". He had thought it, but why hadn't he acted?

Cowardice? Probably.

Loyalty to his own country? Perhaps.

Because he thought they were right? Because he was stupid enough to believe in their lies? Yes. God, yes.

"I . . . h-had to follow my General. My . . . Elder. He gave me orders and I had to carry them out."

"Do not compare your war-mongering military leaders to our Elders." Jukaat warned, resting the blade on Mustang's knuckle but not yet cutting.

"I'm sorry . . . I'm just t-trying to explain."

Jukaat turned his eyes back to Roy's hand and Mustang steeled himself for the first slice, but it did not come. Mustang watched the man closely, wondering at the suddenly uncomfortable expression that marred his face. Gone was the stoicism, the false enjoyment of the foreigner's suffering. Jukaat met Roy's eyes, a sick confusion and resignation registering on his face.

"I am not a monster." Jukaat said suddenly with a surprising desperation. "I do not like this." He gestured to the remains of Roy's hand, waving the knife at it angrily.

"I know."

"But I would not disobey my Elder if he told me to kill innocent Amestrisians . . . I would do as you did if it was asked of me."

There was a conflict in his voice. Roy could see the sudden, gut-wrenching turmoil that had sprung from his attempted explanation of his sins. The admission was obviously painful for Jukaat and he was rattled by this abrupt epiphany that compromised the vengeful rage he'd been harboring for so long.

"Your military Elder . . . your General should be punished." Jukaat continued finally, looking away.

"He was killed by an Ishbalan not too long ago. And I'm glad."

Jukaat nodded slowly, darkly pleased. He looked back down at Roy's hand and moved the knife away from his knuckle, settling it on his wrist.

"I will take this one quickly." Jukaat said, an odd sort of twisted kindness—no, not kindness . . . but something empathetic, touched with an angry parody of respect—making his voice low and quavering.

Roy watched the Ishbalan's face and Jukaat watched his, their eyes locked as Jukaat raised the knife and brought it down with such flesh-rending, bone-cracking force that Mustang didn't even have time to gasp before unconsciousness found him again. This time the dark welcomed him and held him in it's gauzy arms. It would be almost an hour before he remembered anything else.

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They found a city just before the sun slipped itself completely behind the horizon so that the candlelight in the windows and doorways shone like a beacon in the middle of the quickly darkening desert. Good thing, too, because Ed had been swearing for the last twenty minutes that he was about to die from hypothermia.

"This is a _desert_. Deserts shouldn't be _cold_." He whined quietly as they trudged into the city. In spite of his discomfort, he thought better of being too loud. This _was_ technically enemy territory, after all.

There were few people on the street, most of them mothers rounding up their playing children to take them inside for the night, so it was a while before the foreign pair was noticed. One woman though, with a young boy balanced on her hip spotted them as they approached. Ed cautiously displayed his empty hands in a mime of peaceful intentions and Al hung back a distance, as always painfully aware of the trepidation that his appearance caused strangers. The woman hefted her child a little higher onto her hip for a more solid hold, watching them silently, even assertively. If she was afraid, she did not show it.

"Please," Ed began, his widest, most unassuming smile seated a little forcedly on his face. "Can you help us?"

For a moment she looked as if she would not answer him, even looked as if she would turn away entirely, but then she gave a grudgingly courteous nod.

"What is your trouble, stranger?" Her voice was raspy and a little distorted, calling to attention the thick trail of scars that traveled up her neck and over her cheek. Burn scars. From far away Ed hadn't been able to see them, but now he could barely keep from staring. He knew as well as she did who had caused those scars. It was suddenly a lot harder for him to speak to her.

"I, uh . . . we're looking for someone. An . . . an Amestrisian, like us."

Her guarded expression darkened and she put her boy gently on the ground, telling him softly to go inside. He obeyed without argument, pausing only briefly to look curiously at each of the Elric brothers before he disappeared into a humble building.

"Are you speaking of the devil-man? The State Alchemist?"

Ed's mouth went dry. He heard Al shifting uncomfortably behind him.

"Y-yeah. Yes."

"He dared to show his face here again. The fool."

"So, he was here?"

"He is still here."

The small fears that had slowly been squeezing his heart all day intensified into a painful, vice-like pressure in his chest.

"Where is he?"

She turned and pointed, gesturing toward a smallish building with a curtain covering the entrance. When she turned back to them her face was defiant. "The last time I heard such screaming was when he slaughtered my people. It is good to hear the same pain coming from him."

Ed's eyes went wide. He felt as if the breath had been knocked from his lungs with a sledgehammer. Al gave a tiny moan of horror and bolted in the direction that the woman had indicated, Ed hot on his heels.

The Colonel would be okay. He had to be. God, why hadn't they just stopped him from leaving? Why hadn't they kept an eye on him, made him stay in Youswell?

They skidded to a halt in front of the curtained building, startling a group of men who had been crouched there, chatting. One of them was cleaning blood from a wicked-looking saber. The men stood quickly, ready to fight if that is what it came to. Ed stood his ground, fists clenched and more than ready to fight physically or employ alchemy if he saw the need.

"_Where is he_?" Ed demanded, trying to watch all of the men at once. The silence that followed his question was tense but brief, for a moment later the curtain parted and two men stepped out. One had his hand on the other's shoulder, guiding him outside. They looked up at Ed and Al, surprised. One of them was the Colonel.

"God, Colonel . . ."

Mustang's face was covered in blood. It streaked down in thick, half-dried lines and had soaked into the collar of the once-white shirt that Ed could see peeking out of his traveling cloak. His lip, too, was split and swollen. He was deathly pale looked ready to fall over at the slightest provocation, but the expression that he wore was of calm bemusement.

"Fullmetal . . . ?" He asked sounding dazed as if he'd just been awoken from a deep slumber, "What are you doing here . . . ?"

"Uh . . ." Ed faltered, "Rescuing you?"

The Colonel looked at Ed for a moment, turned to look at the man who had led him outside, and then looked back at Ed, apparently confused.

"Oh." He intoned in a strange, wondering voice as if to say _Huh. Well, isn't that something? Imagine that._

"Take him, then. We are finished with him." The man standing beside Mustang said, giving him a push in Ed's direction. Mustang staggered slightly as he stepped forward, but he quickly regained his balance and moved to stand between Ed and Al. Al had his hands half-extended, ready to catch Mustang should he suddenly collapse, which looked liable to happen.

"Come on, sir." Al said to him gently, as if he were speaking to a child. The Colonel looked up at him unfocusedly, but obeyed without a word, following him as he stepped away. Ed was watching the group of men over his shoulder as he walked after them, still wary and high on unused adrenaline. This had not gone at all as planned.

"Wait."

The man who had lead the Colonel out approached them again and Ed's fists clenched spasmodically. The man stood close to Mustang, closer than social decorum would typically allow, and gently took the Colonel's face in his—Ed could now see—badly scarred hands. He pulled the slightly taller man's face down and pressed their foreheads together in a surprisingly intimate gesture.

"I cannot speak for all of Ishbal," The man whispered, his words obviously intended for the Colonel only, "But I forgive you. I understand."

Mustang's eyes widened for a moment, staring into the red-eyed Ishbalan's with apparent shock. Then he let his eyes close, looking both pained and sadly rapturous. He pressed his head more tightly against the other man's, gratitude seeming to radiate off of him in waves.

Ed had no idea what was going on. He looked up at Al, eyebrows raised, but his brother just shook his head. He looked over his shoulder at the group of men and they, too, looked confounded as they muttered to one another.

The men pulled away from each other and the Ishbalan turned and walked back to the group of men, not looking back. They had been dismissed.

Mustang turned slowly and headed in the direction that Ed and Al had just come from. The boys quickly followed him.

"Colonel, what happened? Are you okay?" Al asked in a small, frightened voice as they neared the edge of the city. The desert beyond was nearly pitch black with only a sliver of moon to light the tops of the sand dunes. The Colonel stopped walking and looked around before finally letting his eyes fall on Al.

"I don't remember where I left the car . . ." He sounded half-asleep, a disturbingly dreamlike quality softening the edges of his words.

"We know where it is, sir. That way." Ed said to him, pointing west and trying very hard to keep the apprehension out of his voice. Something was wrong. Really wrong. "Colonel, if you're injured you need to tell us. What happened?"

Mustang turned his attention to Ed and stared at him for a moment, then shook himself, visibly trying to compose his scattered thoughts. His eyes cleared a little, but it was easy to see that he was struggling to keep his mind collected and unfogged.

"No. No, I'm fine."

"You're lying. A woman said that she could hear you screaming. We thought that they'd killed you . . ."

Mustang looked uncomfortably away from Ed's concerned face and started walking in the direction that Ed had pointed, his gait uneven and stumbling. "I'm tired. Let's just go."

"But the blood on your face . . ."

"I murdered their families, Fullmetal. Did you really think that they wouldn't rough me up a little?" He sounded so tired. He sounded like he wanted to lie down and never get up again. Instead he pressed onward, walking ahead of the boys at a slightly increased speed. Ed and Al did not hurry to catch up. They hung back and watched him, unsure of what to do.

"Brother . . ."

"I know. I know, Al."

"What should we do?"

"Go back to Youswell, I guess."

"Do you think he's really hurt?"

Ed bit his thumbnail worriedly, his amber-colored eyes locked onto the man a few yards in front of them, his dark cloak billowing around him.

"I dunno. He's not acting right, almost like he's in shock. There has to be a doctor in Youswell. We'll play it by ear until we get into town."

Al nodded and the brothers trudged along in silence for a while, tensing each time the Colonel in front of them staggered or paused for breath. It was an uneventful trek for the most part, entirely without mishap outside of the one time that Mustang stumbled and hit his knees, panting for air as he knelt in the soft sand.

Seeing that he'd fallen, the boys ran to his side, Ed's heart in his throat. As they approached, Mustang looked up at them. He was exhausted, struggling to breathe in the cold, dry wind.

"Can I help you, sir? Do you need a hand?" Al asked tentatively, looking as if he wanted to carry the Colonel rather than let him walk the rest of the way.

The Colonel looked at him, an odd, implacable expression crossing his face. "What did you say?"

"I asked if you needed a hand . . ."

The Colonel continued to stare at Al with that unknown, disquieting expression, but then, suddenly, he grinned like a madman and gave in to a terrifying bout of hysterical laughter. He was doubled over, giggling helplessly into the sand as the boys watched him with rising anxiety. Maybe he'd finally snapped. Maybe the insanity that he feared—the madness that he'd been perched on the edge of for years—had finally grabbed him, pulled him down into a maniacal abyss, and was holding him there.

"We're almost to the car. Come on." Al said softly, recovering from Mustang's outburst more quickly than Ed. He gently took the Colonel by his shoulders and lifted him to his feet, making sure that he was stable before letting him go. The laughter was subsiding a bit, but he still chuckled a little as he started walking again.

"What was so funny?" Ed ventured to ask, trying to smile as if he weren't absolutely terrified. The Colonel looked down at him with a smile that seemed almost bitter. There were tears in his eyes. Ed chose to believe that they were from laughing.

"You wouldn't get it." Mustang answered with a snigger, shaking his head.

They reached the car not too long after. They almost missed it entirely because of the darkness of the night swallowing the black paint of the car.

"The keys are on the floorboard, Fullmetal." Mustang said as he moved around to the passenger's side. Ed paused for a moment, then:

"Wait, you want _me_ to drive?"

"Unless you think Alphonse can fit in the driver's seat."

"I don't know how to drive!"

"Then it's time you learned."

Al opened the passenger-side door for Mustang and closed it after he got in. He looked over the car at Ed, who was still standing beside the driver-side door feeling a little overwhelmed.

"We're gonna die, aren't we?" Al asked, only half joking.

"YOU'RE NOT HELPING!"

Ed opened the door and got in, fumbling for the keys. He put them in the ignition and looked to Mustang for further instruction as Al got in the backseat. The Colonel's eyes were closed, his head lolling back on the seat.

"Hey! Stay awake, I need your help."

Mustang gave a sharp, annoyed sigh through his nose and—without opening his eyes—gave Ed a brief run-through of the gearshift, clutch, gas and break pedals, and steering wheel. Ed listened intently, repeating key points to himself under his breath. After running over everything again in his head, Ed took a deep breath and started the car. It stalled almost immediately and Ed gave a strangled curse.

"Relax, Edward. You're fine. Try again." Mustang's tranquility was almost calming in spite of how eerie it was. He sounded nonjudgmental, almost paternal.

Ed tried again and stalled the car twice more before he got more than a few yards. After that, though, he started to get the hang of it and established an erratic pace toward Youswell. He gripped the wheel tightly the whole way, every muscle in his body knotted with tension. Luckily, there were no other cars on the road, even as they neared Youswell, because it was hard enough for Ed to stay in the narrow lane without worrying about another car coming the opposite direction. Worse, anytime he went over twenty or so miles per hour, Al would start chanting "ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod . . ." in a low, panicked voice.

To put it briefly, every moment that Ed was driving the Elric brothers were on the border of a stress-induced heart attack. The Colonel, though, in stark juxtaposition to the boys, fell asleep almost as soon as they started driving. He stirred awake only a few times during the hours long drive and only for a few minutes at a time. He mumbled in his sleep like a feverish child, but Ed could never make out his words.

"I wonder what they did to him." Ed murmured during one of the long stretches of silence that filled the car. He looked over at the sleeping Colonel, whose brows were knit slightly. He made a small, pained sound and turned his face away. Dreaming, probably.

"Torture. They probably tortured him." Al replied, heartache and worry flavoring his words.

"Yeah . . . Why do you think they let him go?"

"Dunno. It's strange."

They hit Youswell a couple hours before dawn, which was a relief, because—in spite of his lingering fright at being the one behind the wheel—Ed was having a hard time keeping his eyes open. He felt entirely drained. It had certainly been a long night and his shoulders ached from being hunched over the steering wheel for so many hours.

Ed slowed the car to a stop in front of the inn, managing a very poor parking job that he was, nonetheless, very proud of.

"Wow, brother." Al commented, sounding both relieved and impressed, "I can't believe you drove that whole way without hitting anything."

"You're just jealous of my superior driving skills! I am a master!"

"It's weird; I always thought that aunt Pinako would be the one to teach you how to drive." Al said, looking over the seat at the still-sleeping Colonel.

"Yeah. Me too . . . Hey, Colonel. We're here, wake up."

When the Colonel didn't move Ed took his shoulder and shook him, "Colonel?"

The dark-haired man grunted softly, but did not open his eyes. Ed shook him again without much more success and then sat back with a sigh.

"He's out like a light. Looks like you're gonna have to carry him inside."

The boys got out of the car, whispering to one another in the dark silence of the street. Al opened Mustang's door and collected him in his arms like a child. The Colonel didn't even stir. Ed fished out his pocket-watch as they walked into the inn. A little after five o' clock. Someone should be at the front desk by now.

And there was. Halling's wife sat behind the front desk/bar of the inn, demurely sipping a cup of coffee and speaking cheerfully with another woman whom Ed did not recognize. A tourist from the north by the look of her clothes. Halling's wife (whose name the boys had never really caught) greeted them warmly and told them that the room they'd rented the day before was still open if they wanted it. Then her eyes traveled to the burden in Al's arms and her smile faded.

"Is he alright?" She asked, coming out from behind the desk and putting her hand to his brow. "Is this blood?"

"Yeah. We think he's okay, though. Just tired. He'll probably be right as rain after he gets some rest." Ed said, trying to convince himself as well as the kind-hearted woman that Mustang was really fine.

She still looked worried, but she nodded and went to grab two keys from behind the desk. She led them upstairs and unlocked a room.

"Put him in here. He'll be just a few doors down from you." She said as she pulled back the sheets on the bed so that Al could lay him down. It was weird seeing the Colonel sleeping like that, weak and totally exhausted. Ed was so used to him standing erect and imposing in his always-immaculate uniform, tossing out commands and witty remarks with equal efficiency. It was easy to forget that he was human, just as prone to injury and fatigue as Ed himself was.

The woman covered him and turned out the light. She left the room key on the bedside table before ushering the boys out and closing the door, leaving it unlocked. She showed the boys to their own room and Ed immediately kicked off his boots and flung himself on the bed, loudly proclaiming his undying love for Halling's wife for giving them a room so quickly. She smirked at him and tossed the key to Al before leaving them in peace.

Ed sighed and curled himself around his pillow. He was asleep in less that two minutes and didn't even notice when Al tolerantly tossed a blanket over him, mumbling something about troublesome brothers who never cover up.


	4. A Raw, Animal Sound

((A/N: Thanks for the reviews, guys! Keep 'em coming and don't be afraid to criticize me if you see mistakes!

This chapter is also a little icky, just so you know.))

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"Colonel."

The voice seemed to call him from far away, but his consciousness reached for it, following it into wakefulness. Roy cracked his eyes open and then quickly shut them again with a hiss as sunlight flooding in through the window stabbed his brain with hot daggers of pain.

"Colonel?" The voice was closer now, soft and concerned.

"What?" he croaked after a moment. His whole body felt like lead, heavy and disconnected from his mind.

"I brought you some tea." A shadow moved between Roy and the window, blocking the light enough so that he ventured to open his eyes again. It was Alphonse, towering over him. The Colonel shifted to look up at him and nearly threw up as the friction of the bed sheets against his amputation wounds shot bolts of white-hot pain up his veins. He gasped and then clenched his teeth to fight off the impulse to cry out, eyes closed tightly.

"Are you okay?" There was a brief clatter as Alphonse set a teacup down on the bedside table and sat on the edge of the bed. Roy couldn't answer, too overwhelmed by the agony that slammed into him in a constant wave. "Colonel?"

"F-fine." He managed through pained breaths, "Get out."

"Colonel, I don't think—"

"I'm fine, j-just go." It was all he could do to keep conscious, as if some dark force were pulling him away, through a cold tunnel filled with fog and cobwebs. "Let me sleep."

" . . .Yes, sir." Alphonse stood and moved to the door. He paused a moment and said, "I'll come check you again later."

Mustang did not reply. He was too busy trying not to scream.

There was another long pause before Mustang heard the door close. He let his held breath out in a dry half-sob. Blearily, he opened his eyes again and winced as the afternoon light once more attacked his brain. The room was spinning around him slowly and a soft roaring sound flooded his ears. He took a deep breath and attempted to sit up. This proved to be more difficult than he'd expected. Gasping, he fell back onto the bed with a cold sweat beading his forehead as his heart raced erratically in his chest. He waited a moment and tried again, more cautiously. It was hard to resist using his hands (or lack thereof) to help him sit up, especially since his body was so tremblingly weak, but finally he was upright. Panting and swaying, he fought to keep from falling back again in a swoon as white pinpoints of light danced in front of his eyes. After another moment he stumbled to his feet, leaning hard against the wall for support.

The door looked so far away.

With painful slowness, he placed one foot in front of the other, his knees threatening to give way. He clung to the wall, knowing that if he tried standing on his own he'd immediately end up on the floor. Finally, he reached the door and another problem arose: how is one to lock a door without hands? A harsh bark of laughter erupted unexpectedly from his throat as he looked down at the door-bolt, his head leaning against the wall.

It didn't really matter anyway. No lock could stop the Elric brothers; they were alchemists after all. If they couldn't open a door, they'd just make another one. Still, a locked door might deter Alphonse from disturbing him again for the sake of propriety. Above all things, Mustang wanted to be left alone.

The Colonel knelt down unsteadily on the dark wooden floor and carefully took the lock in his teeth. It took him a few tries, but after a bit he heard the distinct click of the bolt sliding into place. Satisfied, he struggled back onto his feet and trudged slowly back to the bed.

The locked door would not keep the boys out for more than another day, and only for that long if they took the hint that Roy did not want to be disturbed. The way he felt, perhaps it would only take another day or so for Roy's body to shut down. He hoped so. God, he hoped so. All he wanted was to die quietly. He wanted it to be over. The Ishbalans had not killed him directly as he had half-hoped they would, but now he could still give himself to them, even if they didn't know it.

He reached the bed and fell onto it as gently as he could manage. He lay back with the taste of bile tainting the back of his throat. He curled himself up under his traveling cloak, lacking the strength to take it or his boots off before going back to sleep. Instead, he closed his eyes against the ironic cheerfulness of the sunlight in the window, listening to children playing outside and waited patiently for death to claim him.

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Alphonse rapped on the door again.

"Colonel? It's Alphonse. Please, answer me."

This was the second time he'd tried to get Mustang up today. Yesterday, he'd gone in once to check on him and bring him tea, but the Colonel had told him to leave. When he'd come back last night, he'd found that the door was locked and all Mustang would say was "Go away" from the other side of the door. The same thing had happened this morning, only that time Mustang's reply to Al's knocking was soft—_weak_, even—and delayed.

Alphonse knocked once more, harder. Now, though, the Colonel wasn't answering at all. He'd been knocking for almost a full minute and there was still no response.

Ed and Kyle were coming up the stairs behind Alphonse. He turned to his brother, concerned.

"Brother, he's not answering me."

"Well, then just go in if you're so worried."

"I told you, he locked the door."

"So? Break the door down."

"You'd better not," Kyle said with a half-smile, "Dad'll kill you if you ruin the new doors."

"Fine." Ed said, rolling his eyes, "I'll open it."

Al stood back as Ed approached the door, fist raised. He banged on the door loudly, so hard that it shook in the frame.

"HEY! We're coming in whether you like it or not, so just get you ass up and unlock the door, Colonel." Ed yelled. He waited for a response and when none came, he shrugged. He was trying to look unconcerned, but Al knew that he cared at least a little for the Colonel's welfare. "Have it your way."

Ed clapped his hands together and pressed them to the doorknob. In a flash of alchemy the knob fell off the door and rolled to a stop at Al's feet. Ed made a grand bow and gestured for Al to enter before he and Kyle wandered back to the room that the brothers were using. Al watched his brother's retreating back for a moment, unimpressed. With a sigh, Al pushed the door open and stepped in, carrying another mug of tea for the Colonel.

"Colonel? I know I keep bugging you, but—" Al began as he flipped on the light, but then fell silent. The bed was empty.

Al stepped further into the room. "Colonel?" He said, becoming slightly alarmed. He set the mug on the bedside table, next to the one that he'd brought the day before. It was untouched. Out of the corner of his eye he saw something and turned. On the other side of the room, partially blocked by the bed, a figure was sprawled.

Al ran to his side and went down on his knees. The Colonel was facedown on the floor in the middle of a small, stagnant pool of blood. He wasn't moving. Al made a small, terrified sound and rolled him over onto his back, pulling the Colonel into his metal lap. The Colonel's face held a disturbing pallor as if he'd been painted a cold grey-white. Even his lips held no color except for a pale yellowy tint. His closed eyes were sunken and shadowed as if bruised.

"BROTHER!"

Within seconds Ed's heavy footsteps pounded down the hallway, the obvious panic in Al's voice demanding action. Ed appeared in the doorway.

"What's wrong?" He asked, but then he went still, staring down at the limp form in Al's arms.

"I-I can't tell if he's alive! I can't feel if he has a heartbeat!" Al shouted, his voice trembling. Ed went down on his knees beside his brother, throwing back the Colonel's traveling cloak.

"Oh, man . . . he's _covered_ in blood . . ." Ed said breathlessly, grasping the Colonel's arm so that he could check for a pulse in his wrist, but suddenly he froze, a tiny, whispered curse escaping his lips, "_Fuck . . . no . . ._"

Ed pulled the cloak back further and Al could see what had so horrified his brother. The Colonel's hand was gone, his pale arm ending abruptly in a torn, blood-soggy bandage. Ed looked like he was going to be sick, his hand covering his mouth. He shook himself and checked for a pulse in the Colonel's neck instead.

"He's alive." Ed whispered, relief and anguish both evident in his voice. "And he's breathing . . . but barely."

"Is everything okay?"

The brothers turned and saw Kyle standing awkwardly in the doorway, wide eyed.

"Go get a doctor." Ed commanded, turning back to the Colonel. Kyle didn't move for a moment, uncertain. "GO, KYLE!"

The boy, startled, disappeared down the stairs at a run, calling out to his father.

Al lifted the Colonel up onto the bed, taking his cloak off entirely so that they could see if he had any other injuries while Ed held the bed-sheet tightly to his sluggishly bleeding wrist.

"Brother . . . his other hand is gone, too."

Ed cursed again, his voice cracking with alarm. "Is it bleeding?"

"I don't think so."

"Good, good . . . okay." Ed closed his eyes, trying to think. "What the _fuck_ is taking Kyle?"

"Shh . . . we have to calm down and figure out what to do, Ed." Al said, trying to inflect his voice with a composed certainty that he did not feel.

Ed took several deep breaths, visibly trying not to go to pieces. Al could practically see the thoughts racing through his blond head . . . guilty, panicked thoughts that asked why both of the boys had failed to notice that their companion had had his hands amputated.

Al leaned forward, patting the Colonel's pale cheek firmly.

"Mustang? Can you hear me? Roy?"

There was no response. Al hadn't really expected there to be. If the Colonel had not been roused by the brothers' frantic shouting at one another, or by Ed putting pressure on a major wound, then he wasn't going to wake up simply because Al called his name.

Kyle and Halling chose that moment to burst into the room. Halling surveyed the Colonel's damaged body, blanching a little at the gruesome sight.

"What the hell happened here?" He asked, gaping at the blood smeared on the floor, on the bed, on Ed and Al.

"We don't know!" Al half-wailed, already forgetting his vow to remain calm, "I just found him like this. He needs a doctor."

"The doctor is out of town. My wife is calling him, but he wont be here for at least an hour." Halling told them, eyes glued to the stump that Ed was trying desperately to keep from bleeding.

"He might not have an hour!" Ed protested angrily, looking at the man over his shoulder.

"There's nothing I can do about it, Edward. This town is still small enough that it only needs one doctor, and he's helping out with a mining accident that happened a little south of here."

"Then what do we do?"

Halling shrugged helplessly. Ed was obviously expecting the adult in the room to have answers, the fact that he didn't was clearly upsetting. Al gripped Ed's shoulder tightly, wanting him to know that everything would be okay, but not having the heart to say the potential lie aloud.

"I'll bring some bandages." Halling said after a moment, "All we can do now is get the bleeding to stop."

Ed nodded at that and Halling left hurriedly, barking for Kyle to boil some water and help him find gauze.

"Why didn't he tell us?" Al asked quietly, looking down at the Colonel's deathly face.

Ed shook his head in equal disbelief. He was trembling. The hands holding the sheet to Mustang's wound shook uncontrollably and his face had paled to a light greenish color.

"Ed?"

Ed looked up at his brother. "Hold this for a sec, will you?" He said after a pause, taking Al's hand and pressing it down on the oozing wrist. Al complied and Ed stood up carefully, "I, uh . . . have to . . ." He trailed off, moving into the water closet adjacent to the room. He shut the door quickly. Almost immediately Al could hear the distinct sounds of his brother being violently sick.

The sounds of vomiting died after a few moments, followed by the sink running. Finally, Ed came back out, wiping his mouth shakily with the back of his hand.

"Sorry." He mumbled, embarrassed.

The two fell into a helpless silence as they waited for the doctor to arrive. Halling came back and helped them tightly wrap fresh bandages over the bloody, torn ones that covered the stump. It bled very little after that, but things still looked pretty bad for the Colonel. Just before the doctor arrived he actually stopped breathing, but before the boys had collected themselves enough to figure out what to do about it, he started up again, his breath weak and rattling.

It seemed an eternity, but the doctor finally showed.

He was a stout, balding man with a harassed air about him as he stormed into the room, Halling right behind him.

"Good god, it smells like rotten meat in here." The doctor declared, pinning both Ed and Al with an accusing glare as he moved to his new patient's side. "How long did you leave him like this before you called me?"

"We . . . we didn't know!" Al stammered defensively, watching the doctor check Mustang's pulse. "He hid it from us."

"For how long?"

"A couple days."

The doctor made an annoyed, scoffing sound, "So if getting his hands cut off weren't bad enough, you were going to let him die of sepsis? He absolutely _reeks _of infection, how did you not notice?"

"Hey, get off our backs, doc." Ed growled, immediately rubbed the wrong way by this curt doctor. "You're acting like this is our fault."

"I call it like I see it, kid. I have been treating patients for thirty-eight hours straight now. Instead of going home and having a good night's rest, I get called over here to a patient who, by the looks of him, will need a lot more than a few stitches before I'm done with him. Don't expect me to be nice." The doctor shot back as he did various little diagnostic tests on the Colonel's limp body. Ed looked as if he might say something, but Al squeezed his shoulder and he shut his mouth.

"The wounds are poisoning him, and he's badly dehydrated." The doctor said after a moment, reaching into the case that he'd brought with him. He took out a large syringe and an ampule of clear fluid from his bag. Al felt Ed stiffen under his hand as the doctor stuck the needle into the ampule and filled the syringe with the colorless solution.

He took Mustang's arm gently and inserted the needle into the crook of his elbow. Ed made an uncomfortable sound and looked away as the doctor injected the fluid.

"I'll put him on a saline drip once Kyle gets back with more equipment from my home, but this will help for now." He said, more to himself than to the boys. He raised his head and looked at Halling, who was still hovering in the doorway. "Halling, if you'd be so kind, would you bring some basins and sterile water up for me? And rags. Lots of clean rags."

Halling nodded, looking grateful to be dismissed as he backed out of the door.

The doctor set down the empty syringe and lifted Mustang's arm, using a small, very unprofessional-looking pocketknife that he'd fished from his pocket to cut through the bandages that Ed and Al had just tied on. He peeled them off carefully, exposing the ragged, oozing wound.

Al gasped. It was even worse than it had looked under the blood-tainted, torn bandages that he'd found him in. The cut was not clean as he'd imagined it would be, but looked as if it had been sawed though, strings of flesh hanging and shards of shattered bone protruding from the red void. The wound was festering badly, edges of the flesh beginning to turn disturbing shades of grey and yellow. It looked as if someone had tried to seal the wound via burning it shut, but swelling had apparently burst the seam open again and allowed the thin, infected blood to pour once more.

The doctor clicked his tongue and carefully probed the wound with his finger, "This one's pretty bad. I'll have to clear a lot of this away. He'll probably have to lose another couple of inches of his arm."

Ed clenched his jaw, his hand moving subconsciously to his broken automail arm and stroking it with slow fingers.

"The other one wasn't really bleeding. Maybe it will be better?" Al predicted in a small voice that he knew betrayed his young age.

The doctor looked up again, the harshness in his face subsiding a little at the childlike hopefulness in Al's words.

"Let's hope so." He sighed then looked down at Ed, his eyes lingering on the automail. "At least you can recommend a good mechanic, huh?" He asked with an almost apologetic kindness. Now that the doctor was a little more settled with the status of his patient, he was less irate and able to recognize the suffering of the two boys in the room.

"Only the best." Ed replied, trying to sound upbeat about it and failing.

The doctor smiled, an expression that looked infinitely better on him than the glaring frown he'd worn on his way in. He turned his attention back to the Colonel, palpating the arm, mumbling about fractured bones. As he felt his way back down to the open wound, Mustang's back suddenly arched off of the bed, his head thrown back and mouth opened to pull in a ragged gasp.

A mangled scream tore itself from his throat, a raw, animal sound that chilled Al to his core. The Colonel tried to wrench his arm from the doctor's grasp, but the doctor held him, using his other hand to push his shoulder back down onto the bed.

"Shh, lay back." The doctor tried to soothe while wrestling against him. "I know it hurts, but I'm going to help you."

"_Don't touch me!_" The man shrieked, his dark eyes wild and clouded with confusion and pain.

"A little help here, boys." The doctor barked over his shoulder at Al and Ed. Both of them had been staring transfixed with horror, Ed pressing himself back against Al, both to comfort and be comforted. But, at the doctor's command, both boys jumped to help. Al placed one huge, strong hand down on Mustang's upper arm and used the other to hold down his legs. Ed took over the doctor's hold on the Colonel's other side, pressing him down onto the mattress.

The Colonel thrashed under their hold, screaming and pleading for them to let him go. Ed put a hand on his head, holding it down onto the pillow as the doctor filled another syringe with the contents of a small vial.

"Colonel, it's okay!" Ed said, trying to calm him. "He's a doctor, it'll be okay!"

"He's delirious, you're wasting your breath." The doctor informed him, sliding the needle into his arm and dosing him. "He'll relax in a moment."

Mustang tossed his head to the side, facing Ed, and then seemed to freeze. He went still, staring at Ed with a tortured expression on his clammy face. He let his breath out in a harsh sob, whispering:

"_I'm sorry . . . I'm sorry . . . Please . . ._"

Ed looked up at Al, alarmed. The Colonel had stopped struggling so Al let him go, although he kept his hand gently on his arm.

"_I was just following orders . . . I swear to god . . . I'm so sorry . . ._"

"Hey, it's alright, Colonel. It's okay." Ed said, his voice like a soft ache.

Al looked over at the doctor, who was watching his patient carefully. The Colonel's eyelids fluttered, his already-unfocused eyes now over-bright with the morphine that the doctor had given him. As hazy as the Colonel's vision must have been, his eyes were still fixed on Ed, although he wasn't really seeing him. He saw someone else, some demon from his past. Al had no doubt that he was back in Ishbal, living it all again. He looked at Ed as if nothing in the world mattered more than making him listen and understand . . .

"_Forgive me . . ._" Mustang rasped as his eyes sagged shut. His body went limp again and he fell still, his disarrayed black hair plastered to his face.

Ed's hand lingered on Mustang's head for a moment longer, brushing back his hair from his eyes. The young blond looked bewildered and ill. He stepped back and ran his fingers through his own hair, taking a deep, shuddering breath.

"Well, now that that's over . . ." The doctor said with as much lightness as he could muster, taking up the Colonel's arm again.

Al straightened himself and moved around to the other side of the bed to stand with his brother. "You okay?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm just a little freaked out, you know?" Ed replied, trying to sound nonchalant.

They fell into another tense, throat-tightening silence and watched the doctor as he began to examine Mustang's other hand.

"So tell me," the man said after a few minutes, "You three must have an interesting story to tell. One of you in an antique suit of armor, one of you a young spitfire with damaged automail, and the last a—a Colonel, was it? —who is currently without hands." He lifted his head and looked at each of them in turn with raised eyebrows. "I'm going to be here for a while working on your friend here, so why don't you regale me with what happened to this man?"

It was a ploy. Al saw through it instantly. Not a bad ploy, rather a juvenile one. The doctor recognized that Ed and Al were children in spite of their gruff demeanor and exterior, respectfully. It was the oldest trick in the book to distract a child with stories or questions to get their minds off of the present and whatever pain that present may hold. Regardless, Al was grateful for the invitation to keep the silence at bay and launched into the happenings of the past few days, Ed adding details here and there.

Just as Al was getting to the part when Ed had had to remove the doorknob to get at the Colonel, Kyle and his father came in lugging various forms of equipment. Basins, water jugs, a generic doctors bag, splints, an IV rack, and various other things were brought in and set up like clockwork. It seemed that neither Halling nor his son were strangers to this doctor's routine. Then again—Al thought—that was hardly surprising. This was a mining town and injuries are common down in the dark depths of a mine, not to mention that this man was the only doctor around for miles, so they were accustomed to the way he worked.

"Thank you both." The doctor said to Kyle and Halling, ushering them out. "The Colonel and I have a long night ahead of us." He turned and looked at the boys, "You, too. Out."

"Can't we stay and help?" Al asked, although Ed looked more than happy to leave.

The doctor stood close to the boys and looked at each in turn, his hands on their shoulders.

"Listen, things are going to get very bloody very fast here. This isn't just some injections and stitches; this is real surgery. It would only be a distraction to me if you stayed."

Al nodded slowly and the doctor pushed them out the door. "Stay close," he said to Halling, "I may need some things later."

Halling nodded, then the door closed brusquely in their faces.


	5. Bloodstained, BabyKilling Demon

He didn't look any better, but he didn't look any worse, either.

Ed and Al stood over the Colonel's bed, letting their eyes trail over him slowly, scrutinizingly. They silently took in the IV needle in his arms and the perfect white bandages that covered his wounds and held splints in place to set his broken bones. Mustang's chest rose and fell rhythmically, his inhalations deeper and more consistent now that the doctor had worked on him for a night.

It had been hours before the doctor—who had finally introduced himself as John Foster—stepped out of the room, wiping his hands on a rag. Ed had been dozing back-to-back with Al in the hallway beside the door, but snapped to attention when the door creaked open. Dr. Foster looked exhausted, but not displeased. The surgery had gone fairly well, with only a little more of the arm removed. Both of his radiuses and ulnas had been badly fractured in several places and had needed splinting, he had a fever that was refusing to break, and his heart-rate was still too high, but otherwise, he was doing decently. The doctor made it very clear, though, that the Colonel was not out of the woods yet: there were still dozens of potential complications lurking in every corner that could pounce at any moment. He could still die if any one thing went wrong.

Dr. Foster had insisted on moving the Colonel to a different room, away from the old, infected blood. Al had immediately offered his bed, since he wouldn't really be using it. Ed balked a little at the thought of sharing a room with the comatose Colonel, but did not argue. The doctor agreed that would be best so that the boys could keep an eye on him. Carefully, he and Halling carried Mustang on a makeshift stretcher into Ed and Al's rented room and set him up on Al's bed.

Now Dr. Foster was running through a list of things for the boys to be aware of as they looked the Colonel over warily.

"Don't touch the IV. Don't touch the splints. In fact, don't touch anything. If he wakes up, give him this," He set a hypodermic needle on the bedside table, "It will ease the pain and help him sleep. Otherwise, just leave him alone. I am going to bed. If something goes wrong, come wake me up. If you wake me up and there is nothing wrong, I will kill you."

Ed smirked at the doctor and shook his hand, "Got it, doc." He wasn't such a bad guy Ed supposed . . . a little bit of an asshole, but in a good way.

Dr. Foster gave a little wave and made his exit, following Halling to the room that he'd set up for him. Al closed the door behind them quietly and sat on Ed's bed. Ed joined him and both stared over at the occupant of the other bed, feeling lost.

The doctor had cleaned the dried blood and desert dust from the Colonel's face, revealing his pallor to be even more disquietingly white with tiny, purplish veins crawling across his closed eyelids beneath the paper-thin skin. They could also now see the angry bruise that spread from his split lip down nearly to his jaw line, which had previously been hidden under blood and grime. Someone had hit him pretty hard, it seemed.

"It's late Ed." Al said quietly, "You should go to sleep. There's nothing we can do for him tonight."

Ed sighed and scrubbed his face roughly with his hands. Al was right. He was tired. Completely drained. Sleep sounded good. He flopped backward on the bed and stared up at the ceiling, thinking about the man in the bed next to his.

"He'll be okay." Ed mumbled, "He's too much of a hard-ass to let this keep him down."

"Yeah." Al reclined back on the bed next to his brother, his metal joints creaking. "Brother, do you think we should call headquarters and tell them what's going on?"

"Probably. Man, I didn't even think about that. He certainly wont be going into work on Monday."

"Call in the morning. Hawkeye should know, at least."

"Yeah."

Ed stretched his arms up over his head and spread himself across the bed, playfully pushing Al away with his elbow.

"I get it, jeez." Al laughed, getting off of the bed so that Ed could lie on it properly. Ed curled himself up in the blankets, facing away from the Colonel, and closed his eyes. He heard Al shifting around for a moment before turning the light off and coming to sit on the floor by the head of the bed.

The Fullmetal Alchemist opened his eyes in the darkness, looking at the faint gleam of light reflecting off of his brother's helmet. He reached for him and Al took his hand in his own.

"What are we going to tell headquarters if he dies?" Al asked softly, "Are we going to tell them the whole story . . . about him going to Ishbal and everything . . . or are we just gonna say we found him like this? How much would he want us to say?"

Ed bit his lip. He didn't know. Al was right in wondering how much they should disclose . . . The Colonel was a private man. In fact, Ed didn't really know much about him at all. Did he have family that they should inform? How would he break the news to the people back at Central if he didn't pull through? What could he say?

"I dunno, Al." He whispered finally, rubbing his thumb over the top of his brother's hand, knowing that he couldn't feel it but still wanting to give him the illusion of physical comfort. "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. Don't think too much about it tonight, okay?"

"I'll try. Good night, brother."

"G'night."

Ed closed his eyes again, trying to relax. The only sound in the room was Mustang's soft breathing. It was both a hopeful and heart-wrenching sound, and as Ed drifted off he silently prayed to a god he didn't even believe in that it would never stop.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Ed woke up relatively early, feeling very unrested but unable to get back to sleep. Al was still sitting next to his bed, head bent in the trance-like state he assumed each night that wasn't really sleep. Al's massive head rose in response to Ed shifting around in bed and he smiled at his older brother. Al's facial expressions were complicated considering the fact that his face was incapable of movement, but Ed could usually tell if he was smiling or frowning or just staring off blankly. It was more of a feeling than an actual facial expression, a kind of emotional aura that Al radiated. Ed briefly wondered if others were as aware of it as he was.

"Did you sleep well?" Al asked.

"Not really. I think I dreamed, though. I dunno what about."

"Hm. You mumbled a little in your sleep. I heard something about 'these cats are EVERYWHERE!' but that was all that I could understand."

Ed snorted into his pillow, "I must have been dreaming about you and your feline obsession."

"Ha, most likely."

Ed gave a little laugh and then, suddenly remembering the other person in the room, rolled over onto his elbows and looked at the Colonel. He looked the same as he had the night before, his white face against the white pillowcase, although the faintest touch of color had returned to his lips during the night.

"He looks a little better." Al said optimistically, getting to his feet with as little clanking as he could manage and moving over to the other bed. "Is he still feverish?"

Ed stretched out his hand to check the man's forehead, but then hesitated, afraid to touch him. He was intimidated by the tubes sticking out of the Colonel's arms and by how fragile this proud man looked just lying there. He felt Al watching him and swallowed his apprehension, placing his hand on Mustang's brow.

"He's warm, but not as hot as he was last night." Ed said, taking his hand away as quickly as he put it down.

"That's a good sign." He said, then gave a little sigh and looked out the window. "It must be almost nine o' clock by now. We should call headquarters."

Ed's heart tightened a little in his chest. "Can you do it? I wouldn't know what to say . . ."

"Uh . . . yeah. Sure, Brother." Al said, understanding but not commenting on how uncomfortable the very thought of telling Hawkeye that the Colonel might be dying made him.

Ed was not very good with words, generally, a fault that Al enjoyed pointing out from time to time. He was impulsive, and often said the first thing that popped into his head without thinking about it. This was a delicate situation that needed delicate wording and Ed was not a good candidate for such a speech.

"I'll do that now then. I think there's a phone downstairs."

Ed nodded at his brother gratefully, giving him a meek and apologetic smile as he walked out the door.

The young alchemist turned his attention back to his unconscious boss and sunk back down onto his bed. Upon reflection, it was almost worse to be alone in the room with this frighteningly frail caricature of the Colonel than making that dreaded phone call. The hypodermic needle sitting on the bedside table was also indescribably creepy.

He hated needles.

He really, really hated needles.

Ed reached down for his coat that he'd thrown on the floor the day before. He rummaged through it, pulling his deck of cards from the pocket. He had nothing else to do, so he might as well hone his skills at solitaire. He needed the distraction. The last thing he wanted to do was sit there dumbly, thinking about what he could have done to prevent the Colonel from returning to Ishbal.

He set up the cards and started playing, trying to think of nothing but the game. He did pretty well from the start, and was able to place three aces within the first five minutes. Not too long after, he was all the way up to the five of hearts and the three of clubs.

"Oh, yes." He mumbled to himself triumphantly, "Fear my superior solitaire skills."

"Hm?"

Ed nearly jumped out of his skin and whipped his head around. The Colonel was stirring, brow furrowed, moaning softly.

"Colonel?" Ed asked, the cards in front of him forgotten.

Slowly the dark eyes opened, staring up at the ceiling blankly.

"Colonel Mustang?"

The Colonel blinked, then his clouded eyes wandered over to Ed in a sluggish, dreamy way. Mustang stared at him for a moment, looking tired and confused. Ed could see him trying to figure out what was going on, trying to remember . . . then his eyes focused sharply, understanding and alarm taking hold of him.

He lifted up his arms so that he could see the bandaged remains of his hands and froze.

"What have you done . . . ?" He rasped, horrified.

Ed's heart stumbled in his chest. "I . . . I didn't—"

"_What have you done_? I didn't . . . a-ask you to treat me! You had no right . . . !" His voice was raw, his breathing heavy as if he'd just run a mile.

"What did you want us to do, then? Just leave you there to die?" Ed said, defending himself from this unexpected attack.

"YES. Yes, that is exactly what I wanted! I would have asked for your help if I'd wanted it!" Mustang brought his arm to his mouth and bit the gauze, wrenching his head to the side and trying to tear away the bandages.

"Hey, stop!" Ed jumped up and pinned his arms back down onto the bed. "What the hell do you think you're doing!?"

"Let me go, Fullmetal!"

"Why, so you can hurt yourself? So you can _kill_ yourself?" Ed yelled back.

"It's none of your business!" Mustang raged, unable to put up much of a fight. The Colonel was already winded and if Ed wasn't careful he was going to pass out.

"Come on, don't fight me," Ed said trying to be patient. "I don't want to hurt you."

"THEN LET GO!"

Mustang struggled for a moment longer and then fell back onto the bed, panting, unable to fight Ed anymore. The Colonel's eyes were dull and hazy; his pupils huge in a way that let Ed know that Mustang was still a little delirious.

"You're ill, Colonel. You aren't thinking clearly . . . "

"Fuck you."

Ed bit back a retort and forced himself to keep his voice soft, "I'm gonna let you go, okay?"

The Colonel didn't say anything. He turned his face away from Ed, his eyes wandering dazedly to the window on the other side of the room. Now Ed was sure that he wasn't completely lucid. Ed straightened up and took his hands off Mustang slowly.

Almost immediately the Colonel had the bandage between his teeth again, and this time succeeded in tearing through it.

"DAMN IT!" Ed clapped his hands together and pressed them to the bed. Ropes of bedding sprang forth from the alchemic light and bound the Colonel tightly down. "What's wrong with you!?"

"You were supposed to let me die!" Mustang spat, writhing under his bonds with his teeth bared like a rabid dog.

Ed sat back on his bed, staring wide-eyed at the hysterical Colonel. He knew that Mustang had tried to kill himself during the war in Ishbal, but Marcoh had stopped him from pulling the trigger at the last moment. But now . . . seeing this suicidal anguish in person . . . it was a sobering, heart-wrenching, nauseating thing.

"You aren't going to die. You can't just throw your life away like that." Ed whispered unsteadily, aware of how meek he sounded.

The Colonel snapped his head around, lifting it up off his pillow to glare at his subordinate. There was a madness in his eyes that Ed had never seen before. "Throw my life away . . . ? When you've murdered hundreds of innocent people, Fullmetal . . . When you've seen boiling skin and heard the screams of a city as it burns alive . . ."

Mustang's voice broke but he kept talking, angrily confessing his sins to Ed, whose insides had turned cold with the brutality of his words. "When you've killed children and old women and ally doctors just because someone told you to, and then you _continue_ obeying them because you entertain the false hope that one day you will rise through the ranks and put an end to the bloodshed . . . When you can't even stand to look at yourself in the mirror anymore because all you see is a bloodstained, baby-killing demon, then—THEN, Fullmetal—you can tell me what I CAN or CANNOT DO WITH _MY FUCKING LIFE!"_

The Colonel's eyes rolled back suddenly and his head fell back onto the pillow, eyelids fluttering. Ed stood again and went to his side hesitantly. Mustang forced himself to take deep, even breaths and after a few moments, opened his eyes again.

"You need to calm down . . . " Ed began shakily, frightened and overwhelmed.

"Get out." Mustang rasped, closing his eyes again, brow furrowed.

"Colonel, I—"

"That's an_ order."_

"No."

"Fullmetal, I swear to god that if you don't leave now I will revoke your state certification so fast it'll make your head spin. Get out."

"Fine. Fine, I'll leave." Ed said harshly, pulling on his boots. "I'm just trying to help, you stupid son of a bitch." He stormed over to the door and flung it open. "I'll come back to untie you when you've cooled off."

"Go!"

"I'm going!" Ed exited the room, slamming the door behind him. That ungrateful bastard. Angrily he ran down the stairs and out of the inn. He needed to take a walk. He was jittery and his stomach was churning queasily. This was wrong. God, it was all so wrong. The untouchable Flame Alchemist: a ranting, suicidal wreck?

No. Impossible. This couldn't be happening.

But it was. There was no doubt that it was. Ed's vision went blurry for a moment as tears sprang to his tired eyes. He wiped them quickly away.

_Stop it._

The bastard wasn't worth crying over. He'd done this to himself.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Things were always quiet around the office when the Colonel was gone. Not because he was especially loud himself, but because under his leadership his underlings felt comfortable, and so chatted and goofed around as they did their work. When the Colonel was absent, however, Riza Hawkeye took over and she was a much stricter boss.

"Havoc, are you finished with the Malone file?"

"Um . . . no."

"Then get on it, I don't have all day to wait for you."

"I just got here!"

"You should have had it done yesterday. If I don't have it on my desk by noon, you're working through lunch until it's done."

"Yes, sir . . . " Havoc mumbled, his shoulders slumping as he returned to his desk and sat down with a sigh.

In spite of how much more work had to be done under Lieutenant Hawkeye's watchful eye, the men all seemed glad to hear that the Colonel had taken a vacation. She did not tell them that the vacation was forced. They were all concerned for his health, which they could see declining each day, but only she and Havoc knew of his mental instabilities.

Havoc and the Colonel had always been close, in spite of their difference in rank. It made sense for him to confide in the only real male companion that he'd had since Maes Hughes had been murdered. It was actually Havoc who convinced Hawkeye to forge the Colonel's signature on the time-off request papers, although it didn't really take all that much convincing.

Now Havoc was probably half-regretting the idea because with Hawkeye in charge he had to do actual work. Ha. Well, not really. He was just as concerned for Roy as she was, just as willing to make sacrifices. The men all highly respected the Colonel, even felt a fierce sort of love for him. It had taken a toll on all of them to see him suffer, so the fact that he was away on vacation—assumedly recuperating—was heartening.

Hawkeye moved back to her desk, sorting through a stack of legal papers that Fuery had just tossed there. They were all filled out and in order. Good. She started going through another stack when the phone on the Colonel's desk rang shrilly.

"Get that, would you, Havoc?" She said, not looking up.

Havoc sighed loudly, looking very put-upon as he dragged himself out of his chair and stomped over to the Colonel's desk. He wasn't nearly annoyed as he pretended to be; rather he seemed to enjoy complaining, especially when he was bored. Breda sniggered from the other side of the room and shook his head. The men always found it entertaining when Hawkeye picked on Havoc. He deserved it, though. He was almost as big a slacker as the Colonel.

Havoc picked up the phone and said, "Colonel Mustang's desk, Second Lieutenant Havoc speaking."

There was a brief pause as he listened to the caller, then: "Alphonse! Hey, how are you, sport? Listen, if you wanted to talk to the Colonel, he's on vacation . . . " He stopped, listening again. Hawkeye looked up at him as he leaned against the Colonel's desk, smiling. But then the smile faded into mild confusion.

"Oh? . . . Yeah, hold on." He held out the phone to Hawkeye, his hand covering the mouthpiece. "It's Alphonse Elric. He wants to talk to you. Something about the Colonel, I think."

Hawkeye's eyebrows rose with surprise and she walked over to take the phone from him. An uncomfortable pang of worry touched her for a moment, but she ignored it as she put the receiver to her ear.

"Hawkeye here."

"_Good morning, Lieutenant_." Alphonse said with a forced kind of levity, "_How are you_?"

"I'm fine, Alphonse. How can I help you?"

There was a long pause on the other end of the phone, which brought the little worry-pang back with a vengeance.

"Alphonse?"

"_The Colonel has been . . . injured._"

Hawkeye stiffened. She looked over at Havoc and saw him watching her. She must have looked alarmed at Alphonse's words, for Havoc was frozen, all of his attention focused on her. She carefully made her face devoid of any emotion and half turned away from him.

"How badly?" She asked, keeping her voice low.

"_It's . . . bad. It's really bad, Lieutenant._"

Riza slowly sat down on the edge of the desk, numb. She looked over at Havoc again. He was still watching her and now he looked worried. _What's wrong?_ He mouthed silently, standing and moving over to her hesitantly. She looked over at the other men, but they were oblivious, still studiously working.

She cleared her throat, trying to ignore Havoc, who was now hovering next to her.

"Is he going to be okay?"

"_We don't know yet. He seems better today than yesterday, but he's unconscious and the doctor said that it's too soon to say for sure_."

" . . . I see."

Havoc was fidgeting next to her anxiously. He knew that something had happened to the Colonel and was dying for Hawkeye to fill him in.

"What happened?" He whispered urgently. She pushed him away gently, before posing the same question to the boy.

"What happened to him, Alphonse?"

" . . ._ I don't know how much he'd want me to say. I'm sorry._"

Those words twisted the knife of worry in her gut. She took a deep breath and gathered her courage to ask the next question.

"Did he . . . Did he do it to himself?" As much as she tried to keep her voice from shaking, it trembled a little as she asked the dreaded question. Next to her, Havoc covered his mouth with his hand, now certain that something was terribly wrong.

Al hesitated before he answered her, which did nothing to calm her fears. When he did speak, his words were calculated and quietly upset.

"_He didn't do it to himself, but he let it happen and then he hid it from us. He almost died because he locked himself in his room and left his wounds untreated . . . I haven't talked about it with Ed or the doctor, but I think he wanted to die."_

Hawkeye closed her eyes, trying to quell the sting of tears as they formed. She wanted to ask more, but her throat tightened painfully and she did not trust herself to speak. She opened her eyes and looked over at Havoc. His face was drawn, horrified to see the tears in her eyes.

_Did he try to . . . ?_ He mouthed.

_I think so_. She mouthed back, blinking away the blur of tears. Havoc closed his eyes tightly and clenched his jaw, his hands curled into powerless fists.

"_Lieutenant?_"

"I'm here, Alphonse." She said brokenly, unable to keep the anguish from her voice.

" . . . _Are you crying? Oh, please don't cry, Lieutenant._" The youngest Elric consoled, sounding a little alarmed. "_We're taking good care of him. He looks much better today, really._"

"I should have known . . . " she said thickly, shaking her head and trying to master herself, "He's not been acting right."

_"We noticed. He told me that you wanted him in therapy. I think you were right. There is something very wrong going on in his head and he knows it. Don't blame yourself. I'm not even positive that he DID want to harm himself . . . He was kind of out of it after he was hurt, so maybe he just didn't realize how bad it was . . ."_

Alphonse was lying. He didn't think that at all. Neither Elric brother was any good at lying, but Al was especially pathetic. Still, Hawkeye was grateful for his optimism, even if it was false.

"_Listen . . . don't tell anyone what I said about the Colonel, okay? I don't think he'd want people to know_."

" . . . Of course, Alphonse."

"_I'll call back if anything happens. I think that the doctor expects him to wake up soon_."

"Thank you. Thank you for letting us know what's going on."

"_No problem._"

"Take care of him for me." Her voice cracked a little.

"_I wont let him out of my sight_."

Hawkeye said goodbye and set down the phone.

"So, what's going on?" Havoc asked, putting his hand on her arm. She pulled away from him, moving to the middle of the room.

"Listen up, guys." She said, using all of her willpower to keep her voice strong and steady. The men paused in their work and looked up at her obediently, waiting for what she had to say.

She inhaled a steeling breath, "I have some bad news . . . "


	6. Like Dying Birds

Al hung up the phone with a sigh. That had been harder than he'd thought it would be. He hadn't expected Hawkeye to cry, even if it was only briefly. She was such a strong person. A powerful adult who he loved and looked up to . . . the last thing he wanted to do was make her cry.

It had taken him nearly fifteen minutes to figure out what he was going to say to her before he was able to pick up the phone and call the office. He had dallied and stalled, suddenly empathizing with Ed's reluctance to make the call himself. Well, at least it was over and done with now and she knew what was going on, even if it had broken her heart.

"Did you get through?" Halling's wife asked, appearing at his side. She had let him use the phone behind the bar where she was wiping glasses with a damp towel. She had gone over to the other side of the room to give him privacy but, seeing that he had hung up, she came back to her station.

"Yeah. I did." He said, a little sadly.

She gave him a sympathetic smile and put her hand on top of his. "Think positive, young man. John has a harsh way about him, but he is a wonderful doctor. He helped me deliver Kyle. Your friend is in good hands." She patted his hand in a motherly way and continued, "Now, let me go make some breakfast for you and your brother."

"Oh, that's very nice of you, but—"

"No, no. I insist. Come on. You can help me."

Al gave a weak protest, but his words were ignored. Halling's wife dragged him into the kitchen behind the lobby and practically forced him to learn how to make pancakes. At first he resisted, thinking of Ed upstairs alone with the Colonel, but a big part of him was longing for the almost-maternal attention that he was getting from this kind woman. Soon his hands were covered in flour and he was listening intently to her as she told him stories about when Kyle was a baby, about how she met Halling, and various other lighthearted things.

It was only for a while, but he allowed himself to give in to his child's heart as he laughed with the woman and shared tales of when he and Ed were small. He told her about Resembool, describing to her the lush, open fields where he and Ed would play tag with Winry until all three of them were filthy and exhausted, trudging home with wet grass clinging to their bare legs. He told her about the time Ed thought he'd been mortally wounded by a spider-bite on the back of his thigh, only to later discover—after bemoaning his own impending demise for an hour or so—that he'd simply gotten a splinter from the rough-cut wooden picket fence that he'd been sitting on.

In the midst of all that was happening—and not just the colonel's tragedy, but the long, near-constant suffering that Al and his brother had endured for so long that it pulsed like the hum of white noise in the back of his head: nearly out of mind, but still there—it was like a balm for the soul to just talk and laugh with this woman.

At times like these, he could relax and pretend that his childhood had not violently ended before he'd even reached the age of ten.

It was almost an hour before he politely—and reluctantly—excused himself back to his room. She had let him go only on the condition that he would take a covered plate of pancakes up to his brother and promise to chat with her again sometime. He agreed happily and, plate in hand, ascended the stairs. He opened the door and stepped inside.

He looked toward the Colonel's bed and nearly dropped the plate.

Mustang's eyes were closed tightly, his head thrown back against the pillow as he desperately gasped in air through clenched teeth. Sweat poured down his face, soaking his pillow. His split lip was bleeding again, the blood smeared over his mouth as if he had been biting his lip to keep from crying out in agony. He had been alchemically tied to the bed and he writhed weakly against his bonds making small, distressed noises like a poisoned dog.

"Oh, god, Colonel!" Al breathed, crossing the room in a second and tossing the plate on Ed's bed.

The Colonel's eyes opened, red-rimmed and bloodshot. "A-Alphon . . . hah . . . " he panted, a shuddering moan escaping his lips.

"How long have you been like this?"

Mustang shook his head, closing his eyes again. Either he didn't know or he couldn't answer, the pain fogging his mind and stealing the words from his bloodied lips.

"It's okay, it's okay! This will help you." Al tried to comfort as he grabbed the syringe off of the table and pulled the cover off the needle. "Just hold still."

The Colonel complied, a half-sob breaking from his throat. Al inserted the needle and slowly pumped the fluid into the meat of his shoulder.

"Hey, Al, I'm back. I just . . . " Ed entered the room and stopped dead when he caught sight of Al standing over the gasping Colonel, sticking the needle in his arm.

"WHERE THE FUCK WERE YOU!?"' Al roared, pulling the empty needle out of Mustang and tossing it back onto the table.

Taken off-guard by Al's anger, Ed took a step back. Al never cursed—especially at his brother—but he was beyond furious. "HOW COULD YOU LEAVE HIM LIKE THIS!?" Ed's eyes flashed over to Mustang and Al watched him absorb the state that the colonel was in, taking grim satisfaction at the guilty horror that came over his face as he realized what he'd allowed to happen.

"He . . . he told me to leave and—" Ed stammered, but Al interrupted him.

"And you LISTENED to him?"

"Al, I—"

"Just go wait in the hall." Al said, turning back to the Colonel and rubbing the injection site to make the drug spread through the bloodstream more quickly. "I'll talk to you in a minute. I can't deal with you right now."

There was silence for a moment apart from Mustang's troubled breathing, but then Al heard Ed's footsteps exit the room, the door closing softly behind him.

The Colonel looked up at Al, the pained tension in his body subsiding. The morphine must have started to kick in.

"Don't . . . blame him. I told . . . h-him to leave . . ." He said, an edge of pain still tightening his speech.

"Shut up, sir. I'm not happy with you, either." Al mumbled, drawing an alchemy circle on the bed sheet with a pen that Ed had left on the floor. He put his hands on the circle and the bedding-ropes retracted, releasing the Colonel's arms.

Mustang didn't say anything, but closed his eyes again and waited for the pain to go away.

"I'll be back in a little while. Try to sleep." Al said tersely, as he opened the door and joined Ed in the hallway.

Ed was sitting against the wall, hugging his knees to his chest. He looked up guiltily when Al came out.

"You tied him to the bed, too? What is _wrong_ with you?" Al spoke the words quietly, but his tone was so enraged that he even frightened himself a little. Ed flinched at the anger and accusation in Al's voice, drawing his knees even more tightly to his chest,

"He . . . he woke up and was trying to hurt himself. He was tearing his bandages off, I had to hold him down somehow." Ed said quietly, sounding overwhelmed.

"He was trying to hurt himself, so you left him alone? _Without anything to stop the pain_?"

" . . . He seemed okay. He was upset, but he didn't seem like he was in pain . . . " Ed tried to justify lamely.

Al stared down at his brother, his hands shaking with emotion.

"You might not remember how it was when you lost your arm and leg, Brother, but I do." He said slowly, seethingly. "Every time you woke up you'd start screaming and crying because it hurt so bad and aunt Pinako would give you a shot. But one time you woke up when aunt Pinako was gone, and Winry and I couldn't remember where the morphine was. You screamed for almost an hour straight. We thought you were dying. Nothing we did or said made any difference, you just kept screaming and sobbing. You threw up, and you bit through your tongue, and you pulled out a fistful of your hair before Pinako got back and drugged you. I thought I would never have to see someone in that much pain again in my life, but that is _exactly_ what I saw in there when I got back just now."

Ed swallowed hard and looked down at his broken automail hand.

"I made a promise to Hawkeye that we would take care of him, and now that promise has already been broken. This could have killed him, Edward." Al was no longer really capable of crying, but his mind and spirit were deeply anguished and his emotion came out in his choked, tearful-sounding words.

"I'm . . . I'm sorry, Alphonse." Ed said tremulously, his voice disturbed and genuinely remorseful. "I didn't know . . . "

Al shook his head. His anger was spent and a deep sadness had poured in to fill in the void. "You made a mistake, brother. It was a really bad mistake . . . but I know that it was an accident."

Ed wiped his eyes on his sleeve and turned his eyes hesitantly up to his brother, looking small and ill. Al sighed and opened the door to the room again, "Come on." He said softly, "I made pancakes."

Ed got to his feet and followed him in submissively, shame and desolation almost visibly weighing on his sagged shoulders.

The Colonel had rolled onto his side and curled into a vaguely fetal position. His body had relaxed and his breathing had steadied. It looked as if the drug had served its purpose. Ed glanced over at the man, looking sick at heart, and then turned back to Al.

"So . . ." Ed began a little timidly, "Did you get a hold of Hawkeye?"

"Yeah. I told her what was going on." Al replied, sitting on Ed's bed.

"What'd she say?" Mustang slurred.

The boys looked over at the Colonel. He had opened his eyes, but he was having a hard time keeping them that way. Al had thought he'd been asleep. Mustang looked up at them groggily, waiting for an answer.

"She cried." Al said finally, his voice dripping with blame.

Mustang stared at Al for a moment in disquieted surprise, but then the pull of the drug in his system became too strong and his eyes fell shut. Al was glad that the last thought in his mind before falling asleep was of his loyal Lieutenant crying for him. He hoped bitterly that he dreamed vividly of the sorrow that he had given her.

Ed moved over and sat down on the bed next to his brother, deep remorse still spreading across his face.

"I shouldn't have left him alone like that . . . " Ed admitted softly, "I was scared and angry and I didn't know how to handle him. He was tearing his bandage off with his teeth and telling me all these horrible, horrible things that I didn't want to know. I didn't know what to do, so I didn't do_ anything_. I panicked, I guess . . . "

Ed leaned his head hesitantly against his little brother's shoulder, as if fearing rebuke.

"Are . . . are we okay, Al?"

Al sighed and accepted the loving gesture by reaching around and gently cupping his brother's head with his massive hand, gently twining his fingers in his hair. "Yeah. We're okay. You're stupid and I'm mad at you, but we're okay. I shouldn't have yelled at you like that. I'm just . . . really upset. About all this. About everything."

"Me too . . . It hurts to see him like this."

Al nodded, but did not feel the need to speak. The brothers sat together for a long time, Al stroking Ed's hair as they both watched the Colonel sleep and thought about what they were going to say to him the next time he woke up.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

_Why did it always seem to be cold in cemeteries?_

_Roy stood in front of Maes Hughes' grave, looking down into the open cavity of earth. He thought it was Maes' grave, but he couldn't read the headstone, couldn't make his eyes focus on the words written there. But, if it was his grave, why hadn't it been filled in yet? Why was the site still a six-foot-deep hole with a casket at the bottom?_

_An Ishbalan child was standing on the other side of the hole, humming softly to himself. Roy did not recognize the song._

_Hawkeye appeared at his elbow and he turned to look at her. She was dressed in her military best, the black veil hanging down from under her cap completely obscuring her face._

"_I can't find my gloves." He said to her, for some reason thinking that it was important._

"_You gave them to him." She replied, her voice low and mournful as she gestured to the child._

_Roy looked up and saw that the boy did, indeed, have the gloves. He was holding them to his chest, toying with the fingers distractedly. The humming became louder as he held the gloves out over the open grave and dropped them. They fluttered downward like dying birds, impossibly white against the darkness. He watched them fall until they disappeared, consumed by the grave's black interior like a black hole swallowing the sun, snuffing it with its endless hunger._

_He raised his hands up to his face, his eyes roaming over them slowly. They were black and transparent, as insubstantial as cobwebs or smoke. Through them, he could see the boy standing on the very edge of the grave, leaning forward precariously. Still humming._

"_Oh . . ." He said, "I forgot."_

"_Roy, what's wrong with you?" Riza asked sadly, the shroud over her face rustling ever so slightly as she spoke._

" _. . . I don't know. Maybe I've finally lost my mind."_

"_You lost it a long time ago, now you're just starting to realize it."_

"_I'm sorry, Riza . . ."_

_She turned to him and said something, but her words were drowned out by the child's tuneless humming. Roy raised his head to look at her, but she was gone. He looked over at the singing Ishbalan, a sudden raw, groundless fear making his heart shudder and quake in his chest like a startled bird flitting madly around its cage. The child's face became distorted, his skin bubbling and smoking as if being burned by an unseen fire. Yet still he hummed, even as blood began pouring from his mouth, even as his eyes burst in his sockets and sent frothy vitreous fluid cascading down his cheeks._

_Roy wanted to turn away, but he was no longer in control of his body. No. He no longer had a body to control. There was nothing, nothing outside of this boy, this little boy's suffering. No cemetery, no grave, nothing. Just him, his pain, and the gentle humming that so horribly contrasted with what was happening to the child's face. Then the boy reached his arms out imploringly and—for just the briefest of flashes—became Edward. _

_Then he was gone and nothing remained but the humming._

Roy's eyes opened with a start, his heart racing in his chest. He blinked a moment in confusion, then relaxed as he realized that he'd been dreaming. The humming was still there but it had faded slightly. Slowly his eyes focused and he was able to take in his surroundings.

He was in an unfamiliar room, in an unfamiliar bed. He knew that something wasn't right, but his mind was unclear and he couldn't remember what was wrong. His eyes wandered over the IV rack, then followed the fluid-filled tube to where it dead-ended into a needle in the crook of his elbow. His eyes continued down his arm until they arrived at the mass of bandages where his hand used to be. He stopped.

Oh. Now he remembered.

He absorbed that for a moment and then rolled his head to the side as the quiet singing started up again.

Fullmetal and Alphonse were sitting on a bed next to his, their backs against the headboard as they read quietly. Ed was humming softly to himself as he turned the pages.

Ed must have caught Mustang's movement out of the corner of his eye, for he stopped humming and looked over at him.

"Colonel! Sorry, did I wake you?" Edward asked timidly, sounding a little embarrassed.

Roy shook his head, closing his eyes again briefly.

"How are you feeling?" Alphonse asked, leaning forward to look past his brother at the Colonel.

"…Drugged." He replied after a brief consideration. He was not at all happy with how weak and strange his voice sounded to his own ears.

Ed gave a pale little smile at that, "That's good, I guess."

"How long have I been out?"

"Well, you woke up for a while this morning . . . You don't remember?"

Roy thought hard, trying to recall. He had a vague impression of anger, and anguish, and pain so great that he couldn't breathe . . . but the memories were jumbled and hazy in his drug-flooded mind.

"Not . . . really."

"That's probably a good thing." Al said darkly as Ed bowed his head. "You were . . . not yourself."

Roy waited for further explanation, but none came and something deep within him told him not to pursue it. Maybe he didn't want to know.

He looked down at the bandages again and his stomach gave a sick lurch.

"How bad is it?" He asked hesitantly.

"You almost died, Colonel." Alphonse answered, a sharp edge of accusation piercing each syllable. "You wanted to die, didn't you?"

" . . . Don't judge me, Alphonse." Roy said tiredly after a long pause, "You have no idea . . . "

An awkward hush fell over the room for a few beats, then Fullmetal shifted and said tentatively:

"Dr. Foster went to get more antibiotics from his house, but he should be back soon. He can probably tell you more about your health than we can . . . He says you're doing better, though."

Something had definitely happened. Alphonse was angry and hurt-sounding, while Ed was clearly terrified, his words nervous and ill at ease, speaking to the Colonel as if he were made of glass and would break if he said the wrong thing or made any sudden moves.

Roy nodded slowly, very uncomfortable with Ed's change in demeanor. He could handle Al's anger—even understood it to some extent—but Ed's expression of sick fear and utter . . . _vulnerability_ . . . was profoundly disturbing.

Luckily, at that moment the door opened and the stressed air in the room was dispelled somewhat.

"Well, look who decided to join us." A man—presumably Dr. Foster—said as he stepped in. He carried a bag in one hand and a small basin under his arm. He grabbed a stool that had been sitting beside the door and dragged it over to Roy. He sat down and tossed the basin unceremoniously onto the bed next to the Colonel's leg.

"You're looking pretty doped-up still, so I take it you aren't feeling much pain at the moment?" The man said. Roy shook his head, taken a little off-guard by the doctor's less-than-professional air. He took Roy's chin firmly in his hand and told him to watch his finger as he moved it side-to-side without moving his head.

Roy complied groggily, apparently to the doctor's satisfaction, for he grunted his approval and turned his attention to the bag he'd brought in. He rummaged through it and said without looking up, "You boys can leave us. I'd like to have a little conversation with your Colonel."

"Uh, sure." Ed said quickly, getting up off the bed and heading to the door without argument. Al followed behind him and closed the door.

Dr. Foster straightened up with the item he'd been rummaging for in hand, a needle-less syringe by the look of it.

"Now then." He said diplomatically, setting the syringe aside and taking Mustang's arm in his hand and beginning to unwrap it. "As they may have mentioned, I'm Doctor John Foster."

"Colonel Roy Mustang."

"Sorry to meet you, given the circumstances. You've certainly given us a scare or two in the past couple days."

"So I gathered . . . The boys said that something happened this morning, but I don't remember it."

"Ah." The doctor said, looking up. "Well, to hear them tell it, you woke up all delusional and tried to hurt yourself, saying that you wanted to die. Scared the hell out of the little one so he tied you down and ran off. The big one found you an hour or so later. Left for so long without any sort of pain-management, you were in pretty bad shape. The little one is terribly guilt-ridden."

The doctor said all this very conversationally, not reacting to the horrified regret that registered on the Colonel's face.

" . . . I suppose that explains why Ed is so distraught."

"Well, no one likes to see a friend injured."

"I'm not his friend, I'm his boss."

"Hm. Think what you want, but those boys love you. Both of them. You're blind if you can't see that. They have been through hell in the last couple of days, sick with worry over you. You're more than his boss, whether you like it or not."

Roy couldn't think of an answer to that. He watched as the doctor pulled off the last of the bandage and then stiffened at the sight of the bare wound. He turned his head away, sickened.

"If you think it looks bad now, you should have seen it before I made it this pretty." The doctor quipped with a little laugh. He picked up the syringe and submerged the tip into a bottle, sucking up clear liquid. He put the basin under Mustang's arm and set the nozzle to the swollen line of stitches that closed his wound. "This is probably going to hurt a bit no matter how doped-up you are, so just bear with me."

Dr. Foster depressed the syringe, pumping the medicinal fluid directly into the wound. It froze and burned all at once, causing Roy to grit his teeth and tense his muscles. Infection-laced blood and excess liquid was forced out by the squirted fluid and dribbled unpleasantly into the waiting basin below, tinting the bottom a sickly pink.

"So . . . " The doctor began companionably as he cleaned the wound, "What exactly happened to you, if you don't mind my asking?"

Mustang looked at him for a moment, thinking of telling him to mind his own goddamn business. He was tired, and he was light-headed, and—truth be told—he really did not feel like talking. In spite of this, though, the words came tumbling out of his mouth before he could stop them.

In retrospect he would blame it on the morphine. He would claim that he was inebriated and in pain if anyone dared ask him why he told this complete stranger everything. Not just about the Ishbalan that he gave his hands to, oh no. No, he told the doctor about the war, and the killing, and the fire, and his previous suicide attempt, and the dreams, and the hallucinations, and the all-consuming guilt that had led him here to this bed, this room, this town.

He said it all slowly, precisely, and without any emotion other than a tightening of his vocal chords whenever the doctor's administrations caused a lance of pain to shoot up his arm. He was momentarily detached from his own tragedy. He knew that sooner or later the devastation over losing his hands would hit him, knew that the accumulating grief that was slowly weighing down on him would break him, but for now he was numb.

Numb, and blessedly high as a kite.

The doctor finished cleaning and rebandaging both of Roy's arm-stumps, but continued listening to him speak without interruption. Maybe it had been Foster's intent for Roy to purge these thoughts and words out into the open. Maybe he felt that the mind should be cleansed of infection as well as the body. Perhaps Alphonse had told him of the Colonel's mental issues and the good doctor was trying to evaluate him psychologically. Whatever the case, it was clear to Roy even as he spoke that the doctor was pleased with his vocalization of his confessions and memories. Mustang didn't know what Foster's motive was for listening so intently, nor—in his current state—did he care.

" . . . I can see why your loved ones fear for your life, Colonel. " Foster said when Roy had run out of things to say. "You're clearly unbalanced."

Roy had to give a bitter little laugh at that, "Thanks."

"Not that I blame you, really. You've been through more terror and grief in your young life than anyone I know. If you've been holding it all in this whole time, I'm not surprised that you've come a little undone. I can't say that I agree with your suicidal tendencies, but I certainly understand them."

"Oh? So you wont lecture me on how _much_ I have to live for, like every other person I know?" Mustang asked acidly, "That's a relief."

"I have no moral objections to suicide, so why would I lecture you? If you want to kill yourself, that's your business. I wont stop you." Foster sat back in the stool thoughtfully, the wood creaking gently under his weight. "I treated a woman once who had gone deaf. She was a musician. She told me that all joy in her life was gone now that she couldn't hear music, so she killed herself. I had tried talking her out of it, but it was ultimately her decision and I supported her. It was her life and she could do whatever she wanted with it."

Mustang looked at Foster drowsily, wondering where this story was going. Foster was looking contemplatively over at the window as he spoke, no real emotion on his face. The man was unreadable.

"Her ten-year-old daughter found her body hanging from a tree in the back yard. A year later the girl slit her wrists. The woman's husband became an abusive alcoholic, nearly killing their four-year-old son once because he'd had a bad day. I had to set two broken arms and give him almost forty stitches. His little head had been kicked in pretty bad, so he never fully recovered. He lives with his uncle here in town because his father was finally imprisoned after he slashed open a bartender with a broken bottle."

Foster let his words fade into silence, still looking thoughtful.

" . . . I thought you weren't going to lecture me." Mustang said, warily critical.

"I'm not lecturing. I'm just telling a story, take whatever you want from it . . . But it does make you wonder what would happen to your loved ones if you did kill yourself, doesn't it? Makes you think about little Ed, and how desperately he wants to fix you."

Mustang closed his eyes and exhaled loudly. "You're an asshole."

"I know. Great, isn't it?" Foster replied, a smile cheerfully lilting his words. He patted the Colonel's leg in a vaguely paternal way and got to his feet. "Well, Colonel, you seem to be healing up nicely. I'll leave some more ampules of morphine with the boys for you. Let them know when you need them. You should also eat something if you think you can stomach it."

"No." Roy said immediately, recoiling at the very thought of food.

"Hm. You should at least drink some broth if nothing else. I'll tell the boys to make sure that you do."

Roy made a face and the doctor laughed, shaking his head. The man went to the door and opened it.

"You're going to be in this bed for a long time. I suggest that you use the time to think about your priorities, Colonel Mustang."

"I suggest that you go to hell, Dr. Foster."

The doctor laughed again as he backed out the door with his hands held up innocently. Something in his face told Roy that the man was enjoying this banter.

The Colonel was left alone for a few moments, trying to ignore the ache that had settled in his stumps because of the doctor's meddling with them. The boys came back in after several minutes and resumed their posts on the other bed. Al—who seemed to be actively trying to let go of the inexplicable anger that he harbored—made an attempt at conversation, but the Colonel didn't really take part.

He was deeply unsettled by Ed. He couldn't even look at him without his heart tightening in his chest. He didn't want to admit it, but the doctor's words had struck a chord . . . Shit. He did _not_ have the capacity to deal with the kid's insecurity at the moment.

He rolled onto his side, facing away from the Elric brothers, signaling that he was in no mood for conversation, and tried to fall asleep. As exhausted and chemically sedated as he was, it took him a while before sleep embraced him. He listened distantly to the boys speaking to one another in hushed voices.

"He seems a lot better, Al."

"Yeah."

" . . . Think we should call Hawkeye again and tell her what's up?"

"Definitely. I think that any good news at this point will cheer her up."

Hawkeye's veiled form manifested thinly in his mind's eye, her head bent and shoulders quaking with soundless grief.

. . . Riza . . .

Perhaps he'd said the name aloud. He wasn't sure, but the boys suddenly stopped talking. It didn't matter. Sleep was finally coming for him, extending its long black fingers toward him invitingly. He greeted it, eager to be back in oblivion and away from the waking world where pain is everywhere and the nightmares are real.


	7. Broken

The days passed slowly, as they tended to when Ed was stuck in one place for too long. Mustang slept most of the time for the first week or so after his initial waking up, saying very little and eating only when Alphonse threatened to force-feed him if he didn't comply. He was distant for the most part, especially with Ed. Ed had tried to engage him in conversation a few times, but each time the Colonel would look away, looking unsettled by the way he nervously stumbled over his own words.

Ed couldn't help it. This was all so wrong. He couldn't wrap his head around how this rock-hard man had suddenly become so brittle. So withdrawn. Had he always been like this, and Ed just hadn't noticed?

After the first week, though, Mustang's intake of painkillers was reduced a little and he was a bit more like himself. The awkwardness between Ed and the Colonel was masked by familiar insults and arguments, a fact that was a relief to Ed, even if he still felt disturbed by the Colonel.

One week and four days after Mustang's accident, Ed was on his way back to the inn from the Youswell mines. He had evaluated them more for the town's people than for the military record he had been ordered to take, but he had also done it for his own curiosity. He was, after all, the Fullmetal Alchemist and he was intrigued by metal in its rawest form. The miners had been very accommodating, giving him a tour and allowing him to take samples of whatever he pleased. All in all, it had been a good experience.

Also, it gave him an excuse to get away from the Colonel.

Still, he reasoned with himself as he ascended the stairs back up to his room, things were getting better. The _Colonel_ was getting better.

Ed opened the door to the room and was a little startled to see the Colonel's bed empty.

"Where'd he go?" He asked, quelling the odd stab of alarm that touched him for a split second. He'd been up and walking around a little for the past couple days; Ed could hardly expect the habitually active man to keep laying in be all day.

"Showering." Al said with a certain brightness in his words that Ed hadn't heard in a long while. "He's feeling better today."

Al's anger at Ed's irresponsibility and at Mustang's selfish attempt to take his own life had faded quickly. He was a kind-hearted soul almost incapable of holding grudges and had repeatedly apologized to both of them even though all of them felt that Al had been entirely justified in his anger.

Ed tilted his head to the side and listened, only now noticing the sound of running water coming from the bathroom. The door was slightly ajar and wisps of steam were flowing out like cobwebs on a breeze. "Huh. You think he's okay in there by himself? I mean . . . should we help him?" The thought of helping Mustang bathe was mortifying, but the man was weak and . . . well . . . he didn't have hands.

"I asked before he went in, but he said no. Emphatically, no." Al turned his head toward the bathroom then added, "He has been in there for a long time, though. Check on him, will you?"

Ed crossed the room to the door and stuck his head in. The Colonel was sitting on the floor of the shower stall with his back to the spray. The water from the showerhead hammered down onto his back and shoulders, which had become an angry red color from the scalding liquid.

"Knock, knock. You alright in here?" Ed said, trying not to think about how prominent the Colonel's spine looked and how he could practically count his ribs, even from this distance.

"Fine, Edward." The man said at length, not turning to look at him or even opening his eyes. "I'll be out in a minute."

"If you need any help . . . "

"I don't."

Ed straightened and turned around, shrugging at Al. "He says he's okay." Ed clambered over his brother and settled next to him on the bed, looking over his shoulder at the comic book he was browsing through.

After a few minutes the shower turned off and the boys could hear Mustang clumsily drying off. He stepped out after a while, pausing a moment to lean on the doorjamb and catch his breath. The man had pulled on a pair of blue pinstriped pajama bottoms that hung too loosely on his narrow hips and a long grey t-shirt that had seen better days.

"Lookin' sharp, sir." Ed grinned, looking him up and down.

"Hey, it's comfortable." He defended with a sniff. "And it's just about the only thing I own without buttons." He looked down at his stumps for a moment with a sick smile. Oh yeah . . . it's hard to fasten buttons with no fingers. Mustang shook his head and stepped away from the stability of the wall. As he moved past the mirror next to the water closet, though, he must have caught his reflection out of the corner of his eye for he stopped dead in his tracks and turned to look.

"God damn . . . " he breathed after a moment, taking in how much his face had changed within the last two weeks. Ed watched him let his eyes slowly travel across his own visage. He looked old and tired. The dark half-moons under his bloodshot eyes gave him a lost, haunted expression, even when he was smiling. His cheeks were thin, hollowed from not eating and from the stress his body was going through. His lips were pale and cracked and, although the split was healing well, the injury still marred his lower lip and jaw with a nasty green-purple-yellow bruise. The Colonel's usually clean-shaven face had also become a little scruffy with facial hair growth, giving him a wild, tousled look that—coupled with his haunted eyes and the fact that his hair hadn't been brushed in over a week—gave him the appearance of a madman.

"I need to figure out a way to shave." He said with a small, forced laugh, obviously trying to cover how shaken he was by his own reflection. He tore his eyes away from the mirror and wandered unsteadily back over to his bed.

"I could do it for you." Ed volunteered cautiously, at this point eager to do anything to help his ailing Colonel. The deep guilt that had burrowed into his heart had not dissipated in the slightest, even though Mustang did not seem to remember what Ed had inadvertently put him through.

"Ha. You _wish_ that I trusted you with a razor against my face, Fullmetal." The Colonel laughed as he lowered himself back onto his mattress.

"You don't have a whole lot of options at this point, Colonel." Al said over the top of his comic book, sounding amused.

"_You_ could do it." Mustang said, hopefully raising his eyebrows.

Al shook his head. "I don't think that's such a good idea. Since I can't really feel anything I can't always tell how much pressure I'm using. That would not bode well for you if I was dragging something sharp against your neck."

Mustang sighed and looked at Ed squarely. "Fine. But if you so much as nick me, I'm going to hurt you."

"Okay."

"I mean it."

"Okay!"

Ed pushed himself off the bed and Mustang told him to get his shaving kit from his luggage. He sat down next to Mustang on his bed, trying to act as if he did not regret the offer to give his boss a shave. The Colonel, too, did not look pleased.

The young alchemist clapped his hands together and heated a glass of water that he'd left beside the bed and added Mustang's shaving soap to it, working it into a white lather with the brush.

"Okay, now what?" Ed asked, poised with the sudsy brush held clumsily in his broken metal hand and the razor in the other.

"What do you mean, 'now what'?" Mustang said, one eyebrow arching.

"Well, I don't shave yet . . . how am I supposed to know what to do?"

Mustang stared at him for a moment, the alarm on his face only half-feigned.

"I've changed my mind." He said quickly, "I'll just find a barber tomorrow."

"No way, I can do this. If you can teach me to drive in five minutes while only half-alive, you can teach me to shave."

The Colonel did not look convinced. He grimaced for a moment, visibly weighing pros and cons, but finally exhaled loudly and inclined his head. He told the boy to put the lather on him, watching him with an unnerving sort of edginess. Ed complied as well as he could, feeling as if he was going to be graded on how well he completed the task.

When finished with that, Ed picked up the razor again and waited for further instruction.

" . . . I can't believe I'm letting you do this." The Colonel moaned, eyeing the glinting blade uncertainly.

"Don't make me nervous." Ed said seriously, "Just tell me what to do."

Mustang took a steadying breath and slowly, precisely, instructed Ed on the finer points of shaving. Shave with the grain, clean the blade off frequently, and please, do not slice anything open. Thank you.

Ed nodded and set the blade to the Colonel's cheek. He worked very slowly at first, but soon he got the hang of it and picked up the pace a little. He was aware of Mustang watching him warily, but ignored him and concentrated on his undertaking. He was uncomfortable doing this, but he'd be damned if that would make him do a poor job.

"This is . . . weird." Mustang said after a while, trying to move his face as little as possible as he spoke.

"Took the words right out of my mouth. You are a brave, brave man, Colonel." Al quipped from the other bed, tossing aside his comic book and sitting up straight to leer at his brother.

"Shut up, Al!" Ed yelled over his shoulder as he rinsed the blade in another glass of water. "Why don't you go do something useful instead of criticizing me?"

Al laughed, knowing that his brother wasn't really as upset as he pretended to be. He stood up and said, "I really should call Winry and tell her that we'll be there next week. With company, too."

"Yeah, that's a good idea. Maybe having a new patient will give her less time to be mad at me for breaking my automail again."

Al agreed cheerfully and departed.

Ed lifted the blade again and gently moved it down the Colonel's jaw line, scraping away the scruff with smooth, even strokes.

"I never said that I wanted automail." Mustang said suddenly after a brief silence. Ed looked up into his eyes, a little taken aback.

"Of course you want automail. Why wouldn't you want it? It's nice to have hands, even if they are metal ones. Believe me, I know."

Mustang pulled himself away from Ed and looked down at the neatly stitched ends of his wrists. Then he closed his eyes and exhaled as if trying to compose his thoughts into something he could communicate.

"I went to Ishbal to die. I wanted forgiveness and death. They agreed to take my hands instead so that I couldn't do my alchemy anymore . . . I _willingly_ gave them my hands—I would have given more if they'd let me—and I am still indebted to them."

Ed put down the razor and looked at the Colonel incredulously.

"So, you wont get automail because . . . what? You think it would be cheating?"

"It would be like going against my word."

"That's stupid." Ed tried to cajole, shaking his head. "What are you going to do if you don't get automail? You can't even shave yourself."

Anger flared suddenly in the Colonel's dark eyes. Anger and sorrow.

"I don't _know_, Fullmetal. I wasn't supposed to live through this! I had not planned on having to figure out how to survive without hands!"

"Well, that's too bad!" Ed shouted back, "We saved your sorry ass and now you have to live, so live! Just get the stupid automail."

"I don't _deserve_ automail." Mustang spat.

Before he knew what he was doing, Ed's fist slammed into the side of Mustang's face. It was action without thought, a savage, animal compulsion to strike, to make him shut up, to knock some sense into his warped mind. Even as he was throwing the punch he was horrified with his own angry outburst of physical violence, but he did not pull back. His clenched left hand struck the Colonel's cheek, just above the sprawling bruise on his jaw, snapping his head to the side with the force of the blow.

Ed gasped as he his knuckles felt the familiar sting of dealing a solid punch, regret flooding him immediately. Mustang's jaw clenched for a moment and his eyes closed briefly, but other than that barely-perceptible wince, he did not react to being struck. He opened his eyes again and slowly turned his head back to face Ed. There was a strange, sick emotion on his face that was as triumphant as it was despairing.

"How long have you wanted to do that, Ed?" He asked after a long, suffocating pause, his voice quietly maniacal. "How did it feel? Good? I bet it felt fucking great. I bet you'd like to do it again, and again, and again. I bet you've fantasized countless times about hurting me, about killing me, about making me pay for all the shit I give you, or getting revenge on me for executing your best friend's parents . . ."

"Shut up." Ed rasped queasily, shame freezing his insides as the Colonel rightly guessed thoughts that had flitted facetiously through his head over the years that they had known one another. They had just been empty thoughts with no real intent attached to them, but Ed would be lying if he said that they had not existed.

"Do you think that you're the only one?" The Colonel continued acidly, leaning forward until his face was inches from Ed's. "Do you know how much damage I've done to this world? Do you know how many people would have been overjoyed to hear of my death? Humanity would benefit from my end, Edward. Don't tell me that you can't see that."

"SHUT UP! I don't want to hear that shit from you!" Ed yelled back, his heart tightening uncomfortably. "You . . . aren't supposed to be like this!"

"Oh, what the fuck is that supposed to mean? How would you know how I'm 'supposed to be'?"

"Since when have you been all 'woe is me'? What happened to you? Where is the stony bastard with a god-complex?" His voice lowered and started to tremble slightly. "You shouldn't be this way . . ."

Mustang looked away from him, saying icily, "Well, I'm sorry to disillusion you. I'm human, too. You should be old enough to understand that."

Ed looked at Mustang; really LOOKED at him. He was not just injured and sick; he was defeated. He had given up. He was so broken that he did not even hope to be fixed. Ed's amber eyes roamed over him, each sign of his Colonel's resignation twisting the knife that realization had plunged into his chest.

"What?" Mustang asked finally, glancing irritatedly back at Ed when he noticed the boy's mute study of his worn face.

Ed opened his mouth but then closed it again, his throat too tight to speak. Then, horribly, his vision blurred as tears sprang to his eyes.

"Stop it." Mustang hissed angrily, averting his eyes again at the sight of Ed's tears.

"I'm sorry, Mustang . . . " Was all the boy could manage before a sob erupted from his chest. He was ashamed to be weeping in front of the Colonel, but he couldn't stop himself. It was so hard. He watched Mustang's carefully expressionless face, saw how desperately guarded it was and felt his heart break.

It happened instinctively, an uncontrollable impulse. Ed grabbed Mustang by the shoulders and pulled him close against his chest, then wrapped his arms around him and held him, sobbing like an injured child.

"Fullmetal, what . . . !" Mustang sputtered, shocked and a little indignant. He tried to pull himself away, but Ed held him tightly, frantically clinging to him.

"Wh-what's wrong with you?" Ed cried into his shoulder, his anguished voice muffed and raw.

Mustang froze in the boy's arms as he spoke those words. Suddenly, the broken colonel deflated, his shoulders slumping as if under a great weight. He stopped resisting and hesitantly lowered his head onto Ed's shoulder.

"I don't know. People keep asking me that . . . and I don't know." He rasped softly, and then shuddered as his pain, fear, and despair-wracked body finally gave in to the grief that Ed knew had been tearing apart his insides for a long time. Slowly, the Colonel wrapped his arms around Ed as well as he was able and reciprocated the embrace, pressing his face into the side of Ed's neck.

Ed clutched him even more tightly, placing one hand on the back of his head and stroking his hair as the Colonel broke down. The man's weeping was silent, but still violent and profound in how it shook his weakened frame. Ed wanted to say something comforting to him, but the words would not come. There was nothing he could say that could make everything better, so why bother saying anything at all?

The two renowned State Alchemists held each other and cried, neither caring how ridiculous they might look to an outsider. For them, nothing existed outside of this purging of shared pain. It consumed them, burning them like dry leaves thrown on a fire until there was nothing left but cold ashes.

((A/N: For those of you who are actually interested, the next chapter might be a little delayed . . . I have a midterm and some papers to write, so no new posts for at least a week. I'm also thinking about writing entirely new chapters to cover up some plot holes and rewriting the ending, so please be patient with me ; ))


	8. Anchor

**((A/N: Sorry for the delay! School and writer's block have both reared their ugly heads recently and have made updating VERY hard. There are probably 2 more chapters left in this story, so bear with me and my tardiness for a bit longer. I'll try to have another update this coming week.**

**This chapter feels a little weak to me, but I hope you all enjoy it anyway . . . ))**

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It was early in the day and the still-rising sun had not yet become hot enough for the cool, grey morning haze to burn off completely. The fog clung to the tops of the maple trees and flowed over the green, rolling hills that flanked either side of the train as it wound its way toward Resembool. The mist beaded tiny droplets of moisture on the train's wide windows, the wind outside distorting the water and making it move across the glass in a chaotic, frantically beautiful dance.

Mustang watched the dew-covered countryside fly by in a green-blue-grey blur as he pressed his forehead against the cool glass and tried very hard not to throw up.

"Only a few more hours, Colonel." Al said softly from the seat across from him, "Hang in there."

"I'm fine." He lied unconvincingly, wincing slightly as the sound of his own voice grated against the headache that had been pulsing in his temples since they'd left Youswell four days prior. Perhaps they'd been overly optimistic with Mustang's recovery. Dr. Foster had said that the Colonel was okay to travel as long as he felt up to it—and Mustang _had_ been feeling much better—but he was starting to regret leaving Youswell while he still had so much healing ahead of him.

His arm stumps ached constantly now that he'd been taken off of morphine and given a safer, less narcotic painkiller instead. Much worse than the pain in his arms, though, was the sickness that clung to him. He was still battling against the sepsis infection that had poisoned his blood and nearly killed him. He was on a ridiculous amount of antibiotics, each of which left him nauseated and shaky. He greatly disliked being so medicated; he didn't even feel like himself most of the time . . . but he could clearly see that his condition had improved immensely over the last two weeks. Still, he was exhausted, and ill, and in pain, and was hating trains more and more with every passing moment.

He was having a fever again. Not a bad one compared to some that he'd had lately, but he was certainly uncomfortable. He was curled up on the train's hard seat, leaning against the window and blearily waiting for his latest round of medical drugs to kick in and reduce his fever. He shivered convulsively, chilled to the core. Ed had taken off his heavy scarlet coat and draped it over the Colonel, but even that did little to help. When that didn't work, Ed had insistently leaned himself up against Mustang and pulled the coat over the both of them, hoping that body heat would help sweat the fever out.

Unfortunately, that hadn't worked, either. Not only that, but Ed had fallen almost immediately asleep practically lying on the Colonel. Now Roy was cold, achy, nauseated, and pressed uncomfortably close to the sleeping teenager.

"I can move him, if you want me to." Al offered, looking across at his snoozing brother.

"He's warm." The Colonel said with a sigh, trying to keep his teeth from chattering together. "I'll tolerate him until this damn fever breaks. Once the meds start working, though, I'm kicking him off."

Ever since the Colonel's—rather embarrassing—breakdown, Ed had clung to him unnervingly, assertively taking Mustang's wellbeing into his own small hands. Ed made sure that Mustang took his meds when he was supposed to, ate regularly, slept whenever he could, and all the while blatantly ignored any protests that the man gave to his administrations. Ed had changed again. He was no longer meek or apologetic, but instead had taken to donning a very strange, almost paternal—and, at times, even _affectionate_—air. There was something oddly familiar about the way that Ed was treating him, but it took the Colonel a long time to figure out what. Then he had it.

Ed was treating Mustang the same way that he treated Al.

It was almost funny. Unspeakably strange, but still funny. In spite of how amusing it was, though, it was also unsettling and a little irritating. Roy didn't want Ed to take care of him as if he were a child or a cripple. The fact that Mustang technically _was_ a cripple didn't really factor into the equation. He didn't want anyone to have to take care of him, especially Ed.

Still—Roy had to admit as he looked down at the sleeping boy—he didn't _entirely_ hate it.

Ed stirred slightly in his sleep, giving a soft whimper as he pulled his coat up over his head and fell still again. Mustang resisted the urge to smile and closed his eyes, appreciative of the warmth of the body next to him but not about to show it.

Silence blanketed train car, but it was a comfortable, pensive sort of silence that neither Roy nor Al felt the need to break. After a while, Roy's headache began to lessen a little and the nausea had almost gone entirely. The fever, too, seemed to finally be coming down a bit; the intensity of his chills was decreasing and he wasn't shivering as quite as badly as he had been an hour ago. Thank God for Dr. Foster and his medicinal arsenal. The Colonel did not like the way that he felt on the drugs, but he knew that he'd feel a million times worse if he didn't take them.

During his recovery, Roy had grown to respect and even to enjoy the company of Dr. Foster. The man had a coarse, ironically silly way about him that had taken some getting used to, but he was a good man. He'd made Roy take an oath to keep in touch with him, saying that they should get together for a drink when the Colonel had finished healing. Mustang had rolled his eyes and agreed halfheartedly, but internally he promised himself that they would, indeed, knock back a few someday in a bar when he was back to his old self.

And he _would_ get back to his old self.

Ed shifted again, pulling Mustang from his musing half-doze. The boy sat up abruptly, his coat mussing his hair as it slid off of him and puddled itself on the floor in a red heap. He looked around, befuddled, before his bleary eyes landed on Mustang and he realized that he'd fallen asleep on the Colonel.

"Oh . . . Sorry." Ed yawned, sheepishly brushing his hair back from his face and pushing himself away from Mustang. He stretched a little, then turned in his seat and reached upward, pressing his hand to the Colonel's forehead very matter-of-factly. Mustang sighed and let him, by now resigned to Ed's—rather pushy—care. Ed frowned and put his hand to his own forehead, comparing the temperatures.

"The fever still hasn't broken." The boy scowled, moving his hand back to Mustang's face.

"It's better." Roy replied, shrugging him off and trying not to shiver.

"How long has it been since we dosed him?" Ed asked Al, completely ignoring Mustang.

"Almost two hours."

"His temperature should be down by now."

Al nodded his agreement and turned his gaze to Mustang, saying, "Do you want us to call Dr. Foster? You've had the fever all morning and he told us to call if you had a temperature for more than a few hours."

"No. It's going down, it's just taking a while."

"That's what you said an hour ago, Colonel." Ed sighed, rubbing his temple with his hand and looking at his superior, annoyance and concern both knitting his brow.

Ed was being especially pushy today. True, the Colonel's fever was taking a worrisomely long while to drop, but Roy didn't think that was really the reason for Ed's concern.

Mustang had had another flashback that morning.

It hadn't been a bad one in comparison to others, but it had been enough to set all of them a little on edge. It had been just the briefest of visions, lasting only a few seconds, but Mustang had not been able to hide the horror and revulsion on his face in time to keep Ed from noticing.

Already weak and queasy from sickness, the flashback had left Roy shaking and even more nauseated. He had wanted to get up and leave the train car that he shared with the two boys, had wanted to get away from their questions and pitying glances, but the moment he stood up to do so, the world around him went black.

The next thing he knew, he was waking up on the floor with Ed firmly patting his cheek in an attempt to rouse him from his blackout.

It was then that Ed discovered Mustang's latest fever and had immediately forced an army of medicinal elixirs between his lips, angrily chiding the man and saying that he should have told them of his fever. Actually, Roy had not really been aware of the fever. He felt like shit all the time anyway, so how the fuck was he supposed to notice if he felt a little worse than usual?

Still, Ed had been eyeing him warily all day. Apart from his brief nap, of course. Part of Mustang wanted to hurry up and arrive in Resembool just so that he could get away from the boy. He felt smothered and patronized by his close proximity and longed to just be alone for a while.

Another, darker part of the Colonel, though, was _dreading_ their arrival in Resembool. He did not want to see Winry or Pinako. He was sure that they didn't want to see him, either, but Ed assured Roy that they were more than happy to fix him up with automail. Mustang knew that both women hated him for being in the military that took the lives of Winry's parents, but as far as he knew they were not aware that the Colonel himself had been responsible for their deaths. But, still, _he_ knew of his sin and after everything else that had happened to him over the past few weeks, he did not know if he would be able to handle the guilt when he stood face-to-face with them.

"Hey! Are you listening to me?"

Mustang looked up, startled from his thoughts. Ed had apparently been talking to him for a while and the Colonel hadn't noticed. It was probably due to the fever and the ungodly amount of drugs in his system, both of which clouded his mind and made him frustratingly inattentive.

"No, I'm not. What are you yammering about now?"

Ed sighed heavily and glared at Mustang. The boy had been rummaging through the Colonel's luggage, fishing out his medicine.

"I told you to take this." He said, shoving a small vial of brownish fluid in Roy's face. "If the fever still doesn't come down after this, we're calling Foster whether you like it or not."

"Fine. Whatever you say." Mustang huffed with irritation, leaning forward a little so that Ed could press the vial to his lips for him. He drank the stuff quickly, holding back a shudder. He hated this particular concoction more that any of the others that were forced upon him. For one thing, it tasted like bile . . . for another, it almost always knocked him out for an hour or so and then left him groggy for the rest of the day. It did do wonders for pain, though, and brought down fevers when the other medicines did not.

Ed re-stopped the empty vial and placed it back alongside the others in Roy's luggage. He shifted the Colonel's clothing around so that the glass medicine containers would be padded well for the duration of the bumpy train ride and, suddenly, a card fluttered out of the suitcase and landed on Edward's knee. The boy picked it up and looked at it.

"Put it back, Edward." Mustang warned, immediately realizing what the little card was.

"'Dr. Kolt, Military Psychologist'?" The boy read aloud, raising his golden eyes to regard Mustang appraisingly. Inwardly, the Colonel gave a soft curse.

Mustang looked out the window, embarrassed. "Hawkeye gave it to me."

" . . . Are you going to call him?"

"No."

There was a brief stretch of silence before the young alchemist ventured to say:

"I think you should."

Another silence.

" . . . Colonel—"

"Drop it, Fullmetal."

"I can't just drop it, Colonel. Not after everything you—"

"I am NOT discussing this with you!" Roy snapped finally, turning his head to pin the boy with an angry stare. "It's none of your business. _Drop it_."

" . . . Okay." Ed said softly after an uncertain pause. Mustang looked away from him again, once more sickened and unsettled by the expression of concerned pity on his young face. Roy knew that Ed wasn't going to drop this subject entirely, and would probably bring it up again later, but for now he fell silent. The boy put the card back into the suitcase and closed it as he exchanged a significant glance with his brother.

Roy exhaled an irritated breath and closed his eyes. The boys were going to double-team him on this issue. He just knew it. Resignedly, he sat back and waited for the medicine he'd just taken to throw him into another session of deep, coma-like sleep that always left him woozy and entirely unrested. Still, the thought of sleep was inviting, and when he felt the first warm tugs of the drug's power pulling his mind downward into silence like a shy child looking for a playmate, he followed it without hesitation.

Soon he was sleeping deeply, his dark head still leaning against the cool glass as his soft, even breaths gently fogged the window and obscured the world outside with a thin haze of grey.

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Ed was not happy.

Mustang was not happy.

Alphonse, though, was overjoyed.

It had been ages since they'd been back to Resembool and Al's spirits were lifted high by the familiar dirt roads and the sprawling pastures. He could almost smell the wheat fields and feel the cool, autumnal breeze that he'd been so close to in his childhood. Ed liked to loudly proclaim that the Elric brothers had no home—_needed_ no home—but Resembool would always be home to Al.

The three travelers plodded from the train station toward the Rockbell residence, the late afternoon sky darkening quickly with the threat of rain. Ed kept looking down at his broken automail and moaning, "She's gonna kill me." Ed had, apparently, failed to tell Winry the exact reason for his visit. He had told her that he just needed some "standard maintenance", and that lie had been good enough at the time, but now that they were actually within a hundred yards of the house, Ed was clearly starting to worry.

"Oh, man . . . what if she has to replace the whole thing? I'll never hear the end of it." He looked over at Mustang, who was trudging along quietly with a dark expression on his face. "She's literally going to _kill_ me."

"You aren't getting any sympathy from me. I still can't believe you talked me into doing this." Mustang spat, ire and anxiety rampant in his voice. The Colonel was still fighting valiantly against the sleep-inducing drug that Brother had forced upon him a few hours ago. He was groggy and irritated and kept stumbling over his own feet as he struggled to keep up with the brothers. He was obviously having a hard time walking the two miles from the station to Winry's house, but was not about to complain—even though his fatigue and weakness were entirely understandable in his convalescing state. Al would have offered to carry him, but knew that the reply would be a very angry "No." Frankly, Al was half-afraid that the man was going to faint before they reached the house, but he knew better than to say anything.

Not only was the Colonel tired and just not feeling well, though . . . he was also anxiously wary about asking the Rockbells for help. Oh, Mustang hadn't really said as much, but Al was almost certain that that was the reason for the injured man's disquiet.

Well, that and—as Ed told him—the fact that the Colonel didn't even really want the automail.

Al was still a little foggy on what exactly had happened between Ed and the Colonel, but whatever it was had had a huge impact on them both. Ed had become domineering with Mustang and—for some reason what eluded Al entirely—Mustang was allowing it. Sure, he'd argue from time to time if Ed wanted him to do something that he didn't want to do . . . but his arguments were half-hearted and he usually gave in after a while with an unconcerned shrug. It was if the Colonel had just stopped caring about, well, _anything_.

At least, he was _trying_ not to care.

But, even with the Colonel's new resigned outlook, it had taken the brothers days to convince him to get the automail. He would not give Al his reasons for not wanting it, but Ed seemed to know what they were and privately told Al to stop asking about it. Finally, the Colonel had caved, but he was still not happy with the idea.

"Aw, cheer up, guys!" Al said buoyantly, trying to raise his companions' spirits up to the level of his own. "Ed, we haven't seen Winry and Aunt Pinako in forever! Even if they're mad at you, it will still be nice to see them."

"Yeah, well, _you_ can say that because _you're_ not going to get decked in the face with a torque-wrench in a few minutes." Ed grumbled, hanging his head.

Mustang gave a small, dark laugh at that and smirked down at Ed. Ed scowled back up at him, mumbling something about being surrounded by sadists.

Finally, as the three topped a grassy hill, the Rockbell house came into view and Al's heart practically leapt with joy. He could see Winry sitting on the porch railing, swinging her legs idly as she waited for her "brothers" to come home. Al wanted to run to her, but he held back as he looked down at Mustang. He was leaning against a tree, panting like a sick dog as tiny rivers of perspiration trickled down his pale face.

"You okay?" Al asked him. It seemed like he was asking him that all the time, lately.

"F-fine." Mustang gasped blearily, "Just great."

"Come on." Ed coaxed, coming up behind the Colonel and gently taking his elbow. "We're almost there."

Mustang pulled his arm from Ed's grasp with a snort of annoyance, but still he pushed himself from the tree and started back down the other side of the hill, making his way unsteadily toward the house. He'd squared his shoulders and made his face carefully blank as he moved forward, his old air of military confidence hiding the apprehension that Al knew was there, stirring just beneath the cold exterior.

Winry looked up from her quiet musings as they approached, and her face brightened into a warm, energetic smile.

"Well, it certainly took you long enough!" she scolded merrily, trying to be stern and failing.

Al laughed and hugged her tightly, making her squeak as he lifted her off of the ground. As Al set her back down, he caught Ed smiling at them in that mysterious, sad way that always made Al wonder what he was thinking. But when Winry turned to face him, his smile quickly became cheerful and he embraced her.

"Good to see you too, Machine-Geek." He said, smirking against her shoulder. She laughed and pulled away from him, but then she suddenly froze, grabbing Ed's metal hand and bringing it up to eye-level. The broken, twisted metal of Ed's automail hand glinted dully in the fading light as Winry's fiery eyes roamed over the abused machine.

"Edward . . ." She said slowly, something dangerous burning at the edges of her words, "What is _this_?"

"Uh . . . I, uh . . . well, that is . . ." Ed stammered as Winry pushed up the sleeve of his coat and was able to see the full extent of the damage done to his automail.

"EDWARD! WHAT DID YOU DO?! Do you know how LONG I worked on this one for you?! Do you know how HARD it is to design something this sleek and lightweight?!" She screeched, pushing him violently into Al, where he cowered like a scolded pup, making apologetic whimpering sounds.

"Aw, Winry . . . it wasn't really his fault . . ." Al tried to soothe, silently very glad that she didn't happen to have a wrench in her hand at the moment. She couldn't really physically hurt him, but she could still be very scary at times.

"You stay out of it!" She shouted, standing on tiptoe to get in his face. "I'll deal with YOU in a moment. But, right now," She said as she whipped around to face Ed again, her blue eyes flashing with indignant rage. "I'm going to KILL your brother."

Ed looked over his shoulder at Mustang almost as if to say _See what I mean? DO YOU SEE?_ but then his expression faltered and morphed into concern.

"Colonel?" He asked, his brow furrowed.

Al turned to look at Mustang, who had hung back several paces as the boys greeted Winry. The man looked as if he'd seen a ghost. His dark, red-rimmed eyes were wide and glazed with drugs and something else that was disconcertingly akin to madness. All of his attention was focused desperately on Winry, but something told Al that he wasn't really seeing her. Al had seen it enough times by now to know that the Colonel was hallucinating.

Winry had turned to face him, too, her face instantly contorting with dislike as she looked upon him. Winry had always hated the man for being a part of the military and for recruiting Ed into the ranks at such a young age. After a moment, though, her face softened with confusion as she read the sick horror on his face.

"I've . . . never shot anyone before . . ." The Colonel whispered, his voice so low that it was barely audible. He suddenly sounded much younger than his twenty-nine years.

" . . . What did he say?" Winry asked uncomfortably as Ed stepped forward and grabbed the Colonel's arm.

"Uh, nothing." Ed said quickly. "Excuse us for a moment."

Edward dragged Mustang away from Winry, firmly taking him around to the other side of the house where he couldn't see her. Mustang wrenched out of his grasp with a small, panicked cry, but Ed caught him again, grabbing him by the shoulders and slamming him back firmly against the white-painted wood of the house.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry . . . I _have_ to." The Colonel rasped, still looking back toward the front of the house. Ed followed his gaze as saw Winry hovering uncertainly, peeking around the corner. "God, just . . . close your eyes . . ." Mustang begged her, his entire body trembling with old fear and grief.

"Go inside, Winry!" Ed shouted, taking the Colonel's jaw in his hand and making him look away from her.

Winry jumped a little at the frantic pitch of Ed's voice, but quietly obeyed him without question.

"I don't like using guns . . . I don't . . ." Mustang continued desperately, struggling weakly against Ed's firm hold on him.

"Come on, Mustang, snap out of it!" Ed implored, shaking him and trying not to sound as alarmed as he actually was. This was different from the other flashbacks that Ed and Al had witnessed. All the other times, Mustang had seemed to _know_ that he was hallucinating. Not that that made the experience any less traumatic, but knowing that the visions in his head were demons from his past and not horrors of the present had allowed him to rationalize and try to get a grip on himself. Now, though, he wasn't even trying. The madness had taken him completely and every shred of the Colonel that Ed and Al knew was gone, lost behind those dark, terrifying eyes. Mustang was trapped within his own mind, imprisoned and cut off from the here and now in favor of some other dark, blood-spattered world that had stolen his innocence so many years ago.

"Blood . . . everywhere. One bullet, point-blank against the skull. The b-back of her head exploded and—"

"STOP IT!" Ed cut him off, violently slamming him back against the side of the house again. The Colonel's head snapped back and cracked against the blank surface of the wall jarringly, but he did not stop talking.

"—and then I shot him, too. Both of them." He sobbed, "They just . . . stood there, waiting for it . . . and I—"

Ed slapped his hand over the Colonel's mouth, cutting off his words. "Shh, Colonel. It's okay now! It's over." He said, his voice breaking with frantic alarm and pity. "That was a long time ago. It's done, now."

The Colonel shook his head, tears spilling from his eyes and rolling softly over Ed's hand. Mustang was not looking at him, but was looking over the boy's shoulder at some unspeakable horror that only he could see. Al wasn't even sure that the Colonel heard the soft, heart-wrenched words that Ed was speaking to him as the young alchemist tried to talk Mustang down from this newest manifestation of dark psychosis. Mustang was hyperventilating now, still ranting about terrible things and, though Ed's hand muffled his panicked words, it could not silence them entirely.

"Hey, look at me." Ed commanded with a trembling voice, forcing the man to turn his head toward him. "No, _look at_ _me_."

Slowly, the dark eyes wandered to Ed and their eyes locked. It was a frightening, fascinating thing to observe as Mustang began to come down from his hysteria, violently grounded by Edward's golden stare as if the boy were some sort of psychological anchor. Mustang's rambling fell silent and his breathing slowed to a controlled—though terrified—gasping. The two stared at each other unblinkingly, their faces inches apart. Amber and black irises clung to one another like fire and coal, both of them silently raging against the cold grip of insanity that had taken hold of the Colonel's mind.

"Are you with me, now?" Ed asked hesitantly after a long, frightening pause.

For a beat there was no reaction from Mustang, but then, slowly, he gave a tiny nod. Ed stepped back shakily and took his hand away from the Colonel's mouth, awkwardly breaking their eye contact. Mustang leaned his head back against the side of the house and closed his eyes tightly, taking a deep, shuddering breath and trying to compose himself.

"I'd forgotten how . . . how much she looks like her mother." Mustang choked softly. Al could imagine the bloody, brain-splattered images of Winry's mother that must have flitted though the Colonel's head at the sight of the blond girl. It hadn't occurred to either Elric that seeing Winry in Mustang's current mental state might trigger an episode, but in retrospect the possibility was obvious. Al mentally smacked himself for being so blind.He looked down at his brother and saw the same self-blame drawing his features.

Mustang turned away from them with a soft moan and, doubling over, vomited hard onto the dew-flecked grass. Both boys were at his side in an instant and Ed reached out to put his hand on Mustang's arm, but the man jerked away.

"Don't touch me, Edward." He said lowly, almost apologetically as he spat and wiped his mouth shakily on his shirtsleeve. "Just . . . just don't right now. Please."

"Okay. Okay, I won't." Ed promised, visibly fighting against the impulse to cry.

Mustang straightened after a moment, leaning himself against the house with such an expression of dejection on his face that Al thought his heart would cave in with pity. Both Ed and the Colonel were breathing hard and trembling as they tried to overcome their emotions, but Al didn't think that there was anything in his power that would comfort either of them, so he stood still and silent, waiting forlornly for someone to speak.

"I can't do this, Ed." Mustang rasped brokenly after a few moments. "I can't be here."

"You have to, Colonel." Brother cajoled gently, reaching his hand out again as if to try and comfort him, but then he remembered himself and dropped his arm to his side, clenching his hand into an anguished fist. " . . . It's only for a few days . . . And automail aside, you're in no condition to be traveling anymore. They _are _doctors and they'll help you. I promise."

Mustang shook his head despairingly, but Al knew that he understood that Ed was right.

The rain that the sky had been threatening for the better part of the afternoon chose that moment to make its appearance, falling from the iron-grey clouds in frigid drops. Mustang raised his gaze skyward, letting the cold water run down his clammy face and wash away the tears.

"Let's go inside." Al ventured cautiously, trying to keep his tone light as he gestured for Mustang to follow him. "The very last thing you need right now is to catch a cold on top of everything else."

Mustang looked at him for a moment, then a bitter, humorless smile curved the corners of his mouth. "As if I couldn't feel any more pathetic, now you're _both_ treating me like a child."

"Oh, sir, I didn't mean—"

"Forget it, Alphonse." Mustang said defeatedly, shrugging off Al's attempted apology and wiping rainwater out of his eyes with the back of his still-bandaged forearm.

Al turned and led the way back to the front of the house where Winry was waiting for them. She looked up at Mustang as he staggered forward, but he would not meet her eyes. Al watched some strange emotion flit across her face, some lurching mélange of hate, curiosity, malice, and compassion, but then it was gone as quickly as it had appeared and she led them inside without a word.

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Ed sat down at the kitchen table across from Pinako, breathing in the familiar smells of the house that he had known so well as a child. The old woman pushed a cup of tea in front of him and he inhaled the steam gratefully, letting the cup warm his remaining hand. Winry had practically torn off his automail arm and had gone to work on it immediately, pausing only to give Ed a very large and painful bump on the back of his head via a heavy torque-wrench.

Al had taken Mustang upstairs to their old room. The man was exhausted and both Ed and Al thought that he should try to sleep off the rest of the drug in his system. That, and they thought that the man would probably appreciate some solitude after his latest attack of spontaneous madness.

"So, he needs both hands, then?" Pinako asked, writing Mustang's information down in her logbook of patients.

"Yeah."

"He still looks pretty sick. I don't know how soon we should risk doing the surgery."

Ed exhaled softly, stirring the pale tendrils of steam that were dancing slowly upward from the teacup. "He's not as bad as he was when we first called you, but he's still weak and has intermittent fevers. He had a persistent temperature today so we had to drug him pretty heavily. That's why he's so out of it. It usually isn't this bad."

She grunted and made a note in her book.

"Thank you for doing this, Grams. I know you don't like him."

"A patient is a patient, even if he is a military dog. I mean, I treat _you_, don't I? I obviously don't have very high standards."

Ed smiled softly and sipped at his tea. He wouldn't say it aloud, but he had missed Pinako and her cantankerous, harsh affection.

"There's something else, though." Ed began after a brief pause. "Something else wrong with the Colonel, I mean."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. Up here." He said, tapping the side of his head with his finger. "He . . . sees things sometimes. Things from the war."

Pinako looked up from her writing and regarded Ed for a moment. "Ah. That's not uncommon among the soldiers of Ishbal. I've treated more than one veteran who suffered from occasional flashbacks."

"No, you don't understand . . . he doesn't just get them occasionally. It's all the time now."

"How often?"

"He's had two just today. The latest of them was one of the worst I've seen him have. For a second there, I thought he'd really lost it . . . He's depressed and suicidal and he thinks he's going crazy. Maybe he _is_ going crazy . . ."

Ed didn't really know why he was telling Pinako this. There was nothing that she could even do for Mustang's mental wellbeing, even if she wanted to. But still, she was the closest thing to a parent that Ed had and he felt the childish need to confide in her, to tell her his problems as if she could magically make them vanish.

"I just . . . wanted you to know, in case he freaks out while you're working on him or something." He finished lamely.

Pinako sat back in her seat, pulling out her worn old pipe and lighting it. Smoke spiraled delicately from the pipe, then dispersed as Pinako blew her lungful of the stuff out of the corner of her mouth.

"He isn't your responsibility, Edward." She said finally, after a heavy, thoughtful pause.

"I know."

"You're worrying about him too much. You're taking care of him instead of taking care of yourself. I wasn't going to say anything, but you look awful."

Ed gave a half-hearted laugh and rubbed his face with the palm of his hand. "Heh. It's been a rough couple of weeks. I'm just tired, that's all."

"Hm. You just shouldn't have to take care of that man."

"I don't have to. I want to. I think he'd do the same for me. He may be a jerk to me sometimes—a really big jerk—but he's always watching out for Al and me and trying to keep us safe." Ed took another sip of the tea, quietly relishing the taste of peppermint as it slid over his tongue. "Besides, I really don't think he _has_ anyone else to take care of him . . . aside from a few of his co-workers."

Pinako stared at her adopted son for a moment, then smiled vaguely and closed her eyes as she puffed on her pipe.

"You know, kiddo," she said after a comfortable pause, "I think you've grown a little since the last time I saw you."

Ed coughed a little as he inhaled some of his tea, the faintest of blushes tinting his cheeks.


	9. Dogs

There is nothing . . . _nothing_ in this world like having wires shoved under your skin and into your muscles, where they are then connected to your nervous system via the violent utilization of various power tools.

Ed had warned Mustang that it was going to hurt, but the Colonel hadn't really been prepared for this. The pain was bad, but he had certainly felt much worse in his recent past. The worst part wasn't the pain. The worst part was the wires. The cold, thin rods of metal that Winry and Pinako were threading into his arms just felt so unbelievably wrong. His skin crawled and his stomach churned as he felt his flesh and the wires unite into one being, all the while his entire body screaming for him to just TAKE. THEM. OUT.

Ed had been wary of letting the Rockbells operate so soon. They'd only just arrived the day before, and though Mustang's on-and-off fever had diminished considerably since the previous night, he did still have a slight temperature. But Winry had insisted that he was fine and Pinako didn't really seem to care either way. Roy himself had no complaints about getting on with the surgery; the sooner it was done, the sooner he could leave. Still, he didn't feel well and having his forearms sliced and bolted to sheets of steel with only the barest of numbing agents was certainly not helping.

"_Ow!_"

"Stop moving." Winry snapped as she sent a particularly painful jolt up Mustang's arm. He gritted his teeth and closed his eyes tightly, doing his best to obey her command.

"We'll be through the worst of it shortly." Pinako supplied. She was not trying to comfort him: merely stating facts. Neither woman said much during the operation—words of comfort or otherwise—other than "hand me that drill" and "stitch this up, would you?" and other such things. They certainly didn't say more than a few words to him, but he understood their spiteful feelings toward his military background and wasn't surprised by their muteness. The Colonel himself had said almost nothing as the two doctors fused his left arm with the empty automail socket, and now as they finished up his right arm, he felt even less inclined to speak.

The women worked in silence for a while; the only sounds in the white, sterile operating room coming from the power-tools that Winry seemed a little overly fond of. The sound and vibration of the drill against his bare bones was almost as bad as the wires that he could see just beneath the surface of his skin, but he held his peace and waited patiently for it to be over. At the moment, the doctors were just fitting him with the dock to hook the automail into once they'd finished building it. Later—as Ed told him—they would attach the actual automail hands, at which point he could look forward to being slammed with excruciating, electrified pain followed by hours of physical therapy.

"Think you can take it from here?" Pinako asked her apprentice granddaughter, "I might as well finish the hands so that we can hook him up this afternoon."

Mustang opened his eyes and looked back and forth between them uneasily, but said nothing.

"Yeah, sure. I'm almost done here, anyway."

Fuck. He did _not_ want to be alone with Winry. He couldn't stand the way she looked at him, her cold, blue eyes boring into him more deeply than her beloved drills ever could. Did she know what he had done? Had the boys told her? Roy wasn't sure, but he could tell from her eyes that she wanted to say something to him and it certainly wasn't going to be pleasant.

Pinako took off her gloves and surgical mask and left without preamble. She was a hard, efficient woman and as she left the room, the Colonel couldn't help but think that she could have made a great military leader.

He closed his eyes again, wincing as Winry tightened a screw in his forearm. She was staring at him. Even with his eyes closed, he knew that her icy gaze was on his face, could feel the burning frigidity of her blue orbs on him as clearly and as coldly as he could feel the metal that she was attaching to him.

"If you have something to say to me, just say it." He said finally, not opening his eyes as he addressed her.

He felt her jump slightly at his sudden words. She paused in her work for a moment then set her screwdriver against his arm once more.

"You killed my parents."

Mustang's insides went cold. So, she _did_ know.

"Yes. I did." He rasped after a breathless beat, opening his eyes but not looking at her, and instead opting to stare at the blank whiteness of the ceiling above them.

"Two Ishbalan kids told me." She added flatly, answering the unasked question. "Hawkeye confirmed it. She told me that you had no choice."

"I didn't have a choice."

"You _always_ have a choice."

Mustang had no reply to that. She was right, just as Jukaat had been right. He could have said no. He could have disobeyed orders. But he didn't. He _chose_ not to. He _chose_ to do all of the atrocities that he committed, never mind the fact that he desperately had not wanted to do them and had literally been driven mad with the guilt that it caused him.

"You can't understand how sorry I am for what I did." He said to her softly, "I've grieved for them every day since it happened."

"_So have I!_" She spat viciously.

Her words rang through the operating room, filling every corner with hurt and accusation until it faded back into silence, leaving a ghostly residue of heartbroken rage in its wake.

"I want to know how you killed them." She hissed after a moment as she drove one of the wires further into his arm with such violence that he nearly cried out. "I want to know exactly how it happened. You owe me that much."

He looked at her then, incredulously. She met his eyes squarely. It was hard to read her expression due to her surgical mask and the golden stands of hair that partially obscured her face, but the fire in her eyes was unmistakable. When Mustang remained silent in the face of her request, she drove the wire even deeper into him and this time succeeded in tearing a sharp cry of pain from his lips.

"Tell me."

"You don't want to know any more than I want to tell you." He hissed through clenched teeth, not believing that she really wanted to hear the bloody details of her parents' last moments.

"_Tell me_, Mustang. I deserve to know."

She was serious. Mustang looked away from her again, focusing once more on the ceiling. He let out a long, shuddering sigh and closed his eyes. She did deserve to know. He probably would have felt the same way in her position, but that didn't make the words he was about to say any easier.

"I had gotten the order that morning." He began hesitantly. As he spoke, Winry started working on his arm again, but he could tell that she was listening intently. "I went to their makeshift hospital that night, when I thought that they might be alone. One of my superiors waited outside, guarding to make sure that no one came in."

The Colonel swallowed hard. God, he didn't want to do this. When Mustang finally gathered the nerve to continue his dark narrative, his voice was tight and lamenting.

"The doctors told me that they had been expecting the military to send someone to get rid of them for a long time. They knew that the higher-ups didn't like the fact that they were treating injured Ishbalans as well as their own allies, but they kept doing it anyway, all the while fully expecting someone to shoot them in the back at any time. They didn't argue or try to escape. They just asked . . . asked me to give them a few minutes. I agreed and they—"

His voice broke and he had to stop again, feeling the hot sting of tears as they formed beneath his closed eyelids.

"—They h-held each other and said their goodbyes. The woman picked up a picture of you and stood in front of me, waiting. The man stood behind her with his arms around her waist, resting his cheek against the side of her head and telling her that he loved her. And they just . . . waited. Just w-waited for me to kill them. But . . . God, I couldn't do it. Not with her looking at me like that, clutching a picture of her daughter to her chest. I told her to close her eyes . . . and she did . . . a-and I put the gun to her forehead and pulled the trigger. Then I turned it on the man and shot him in the head, too. They fell together and were dead before they hit the ground. They . . . they d-didn't feel anything."

At some point during Mustang's story, Winry had stopped working again. Timidly, he opened his eyes and regarded her, his vision blurred with sorrow. Her eyes, too, were over-bright with unshed tears as she stared down at him. Those same, haunting eyes that her mother had had.

For a long, breathless stretch of time, the two just looked at one another. Mustang waited for her anguish to come. He waited for her to sob, to scream and rage at him, to curse his name and spit in his face . . . but it didn't come. She just looked at him as if expecting him to say more, but there was nothing left in his achingly hollow insides that he could divulge to her, so he turned away from her gaze, feeling naked as he lay on the cold surgical table before her.

After a few more beats of that terrible silence, Winry started working again. Her movements were slow and deliberate, quickly filling the small room with the sharp, bright clicking of metal-on-metal.

"We'll be done here in a few minutes." She said finally, her voice admirably free of any emotion. The Colonel, though, did not trust himself to speak, and so responded with only the smallest of nods.

True to her word, Winry completed her task before too long and finished up by wrapping thin strips of gauze around the newly stitched flesh where the metal met his arm. She systematically cleaned her workstation, tossing out blood-spotted rags and used suture-needles as she wiped down her tools with sterile cloths and put them away. With that done, she removed her gloves and mask, threw them away, and left the room without another word.

Only then did Roy allow himself to blink the tears out of his eyes. A tiny, warm droplet traveled slowly down from the corner of his eye and across his temple, where it pooled softly in the pale shell of his ear. In spite of the sick sadness that filled him, in spite of the heart-tearing, soul-shattering regret that inundated his very being when he thought of Winry and her powerful eyes, Mustang was relieved. The secret of his terrible sin had weighed on his chest since they'd arrived in Resembool, feeling so definitively heavy that he could scarcely breathe—let alone leave his thoughts unguarded for even a second, fearing another onslaught of madness. Now, though, the crushing weight had been lifted, and even though his confession had left behind an immortal ache of mourning, it was still infinitely better than that dire weight.

"What, did she just leave you in here?"

Mustang turned his head and saw Ed poking his head through the doorway, his eyebrows raised in surprise.

"I told her what happened to her parents."

Ed froze, his amber eyes impossibly huge with shock. He stepped into the room and closed the door quickly, moving over to the Colonel. Mustang looked up at him from the cold, steel table, absorbing the anxiety on his young face.

"What did she say?" He asked quietly, resting his hand on the surface of the table.

"She didn't say anything. She just looked at me." Mustang shook his head slowly, tiredly. "She already knew, though. She wanted me to tell her _how_ they died. And I did."

"I'm sorry, Colonel." The boy said, the sincerity in his voice driving a dagger of anguish into Roy's chest. He snorted distainfully, trying to cover his misery with ire.

"Why the fuck are _you_ sorry? You have nothing to be sorry for, kid. You didn't murder her goddamn parents, I did."

Ed bit his lip. Hesitantly, he ghosted his hand forward and ran his thumb along the side of the Colonel's face, gently wiping away the wet track that his fallen tear had left behind. Roy turned his head away from him quickly, embarrassed. Ed drew his hand back awkwardly and dropped his arm to his side.

"I think Pinako's almost done with your hands." Ed began softly. "They look good."

Mustang said nothing.

"You . . . you should come see. Maybe—"

"Tell her I'll be there in a minute." Roy interrupted, not looking at him.

" . . . Okay, sir." Ed answered, taking the hint and turning to leave. He opened the door, but paused with his hand on the knob and looked back at him over his shoulder.

"What?"

" . . . Nothing." He said, smiling a vague, strange smile. He shook his head and walked out, leaving Mustang alone and a little confused.

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Pinako sat back in her worn wooden chair and chewed thoughtfully on the end of her pipe, watching her granddaughter hook Ed's automail into his shoulder-socket.

"You're going to take care of it this time, aren't you, _Edward?_" she scolded silkily, leaning her face close to his to show that she meant business.

"Yes, ma'am." He replied, ducking his head under the heat of her gaze. From the sofa on the other side of the room, Al gave a little laugh, which earned him a glare from his older brother.

Pinako smiled to herself, glad to have a house full of family again, even if it would only be for a little while. Ed—who had dealt with automail for years and could now quickly recover from the shock of having his nerves connected to automail—would be ready to leave tomorrow if he wanted to. She knew he would not be departing so soon, though, because the Military Dog would not be back on his feet so rapidly.

Colonel Mustang was sitting on the floor, leaning his back against the couch that Al was occupying and half-watching Winry work on Ed. He was sitting as far away from everyone as he could, apart from leaving the room entirely. The surgery had been a success, but he did not seem to be doing well. The slight fever that he'd had before and during the surgery had not broken and—though it had not gotten any worse—he certainly looked like he didn't feel too great. He was clammy and withdrawn, giving Pinako vague doubts about whether they should continue with attaching his hands today or wait until tomorrow to see if he was doing better before putting his body through such trauma.

There was something else, though. Something was bothering him. Something was bothering Winry, too. Perhaps the quiet, brooding man had "freaked out" in the operating room while Pinako was working on Mustang's automail, some brief loss of reality that Ed had hinted might happen. Whatever the case, Pinako was not going to ask either of them what was causing such disquiet. If Winry wanted her to know, Pinako would listen, but otherwise she did not feel that it was any of her business.

The Colonel raised his head, caught her watching him, and quickly looked away again, his expression disturbed. It was almost tangible how much he didn't want to be there. He had not relaxed for one waking moment since arriving there the day before. His jaw was always clenched and his shoulders were always tensed, as if just waiting for someone to attack him. Well, they'd have his hands on him after Winry finished with Ed, then maybe he would unwind a bit, distracted by his new limbs. Pinako didn't really care about the man's emotional wellbeing one way or another, but the doctor in her was not happy to see a patient so ill at ease.

Pinako turned her head slightly at the sound of claws clicking rhythmically against the wooden porch. Den plodded in through the front door and stretched luxuriously, sleepy and warm from his little dog-nap in the sun. He looked around the room and gave a slow, contented wag of his black tail, just as happy as Pinako was to have such a full house. When the dog's bright eyes landed on the Colonel, though, his tail paused briefly in its back-and-forth dance and he moved assertively over to investigate this new person.

Den was a very nosy dog and he was convinced that everything and everyone within the house was _his_. It was customary for him to scrutinize each and every patient that came into Winry's and Pinako's care, but—due to Mustang secluding himself the night before, and then going into surgery the first thing this morning—Den had not had the chance to familiarize himself with his newest possession.

Mustang—who had closed his eyes, listening to the bickering between Ed and Winry that Pinako had long ago learned to block out—jumped slightly as a cold, wet dog nose pressed itself firmly against the side of his neck. The Colonel stared at Den, comically surprised to see a huge black-and-white dog with an automail leg appear before him, seemingly out of nowhere. Den pulled back from him a little and wagged his tail again hesitantly, his head tilted to the side as they looked at one another.

Without much preamble, Den lowered his head and began to give the Colonel a thorough sniffing-over, starting at his feet and working his way up methodically. He spent extra time sniffing the man's partially bandaged arm stumps, giving a small, sympathetic whine as he smelled the blood and disinfectants. Mustang remained motionless as Den performed his examination, soberly watching the dog with his dark, fathomless eyes. Den moved his inquisitive nose to the man's head, sniffing his face and unkempt hair with an air of great authority. Lastly, Den went nose-to-nose with the Colonel, wagging his tail again in apparent satisfaction.

The Colonel stared back at Den gravely, as if rubbing noses with a dog were the most serious of activities. Was that man even _capable_ of smiling? But then, unexpectedly, the stoic Colonel blew a puff of air in the dog's face. Startled, the dog jerked back a little, perking his ears up and tilting his head again questioningly. After a moment, though, he leaned forward and touched his nose to the Colonel's once more, his shoulders hunched and his long body tensed.

A low, barely audible growl reach Pinako's ears from across the room. She raised her eyebrows a little at that. Den was a fairly laid-back dog used to meeting strangers and he rarely ever growled. As she watched the pair, though, she began to realize that the dog wasn't the one growling.

Roy Mustang's teeth were bared in an animal snarl, a deep rumbling sound issuing softly from his throat. Den was entranced, not entirely sure what to make of this man. The dog snorted loudly and the Colonel blew in his face again. This was, apparently, highly entertaining to the dog. Den danced away from Mustang and then splayed himself, puppy-like in front of him, his rump high in the air and his tail swishing madly. The Colonel gave another convincing snarl and Den jumped up excitedly, snapping his jaws playfully in the man's face before clambering into his lap and rolling onto his back. Den pawed the air joyously, his tongue lolling from his mouth as he basked in the attention that he was getting.

As he gazed down at the happy, wriggling dog that was entirely too big to be lying across his lap, Mustang's face softened into a small, genuine smile. It looked good on him, that tiny expression of contentment. It made him look younger and more alive than the stiff, somber Colonel that Pinako had first met.

Den craned his head up and licked Mustang's face, eliciting a quiet laugh from him. Pinako sat back and shook her head, amazed that the Colonel could make such a gentle, innocent sound. His entire interaction with the dog was baffling, a seemingly out-of-character exchange that Pinako found both touching and wholly ridiculous.

"I can call him off, if he's bothering you." Pinako said, smirking.

Mustang's head snapped up, surprised. Obviously, he had not thought than anyone was watching him play with the dog. Ed blinked and turned in his chair to look at the Colonel over his shoulder, then grinned hugely as he absorbed the—admittedly adorable—sight of Den sprawled ecstatically on top of him.

"No, he's fine. I like dogs." Mustang assured her, looking a little sheepish.

"I could be wrong, Colonel . . ." Ed laughed, "But I think he likes you, too."

The Colonel snorted as if annoyed, but then looked back down at the dog—who wagged his tail even harder and sneezed rapturously—and smiled again.

"Well, you know what they say: animals seek out their own kind. We are both dogs, are we not?" He said wryly, scratching Den's belly with the metal end of his stump.

"Ha, I guess so. Maybe that's wh-AHHH!"

Whatever Ed was about to say was cut off by a strangled scream and the high-pitched whirring of gears as Winry connected his nerves.

"You . . . you're supposed to TELL me when you're gonna do that!" He gasped, teeth clenched and eyes tightly shut.

"Oops." She said insincerely, brushing her hair behind her ear. "Go sit on the couch."

Ed got to his feet with a moan and trudged over to sit next to his brother, leaning against him and clutching his automail shoulder, muttering darkly.

"Your turn." Winry said frigidly, turning to the Colonel and gesturing with her wrench for him to take the chair.

Mustang looked dubiously over at Ed, who was now cursing Winry's name under his breath and reclining back on the couch in obvious pain. The Colonel sighed and pushed the dog off of him as he stood up and moved resignedly to obey the blonde girl. He sat in the chair before her and put his arms on the flat work-surfaces on either side. He did not look at her, nor did she look at him, just about confirming Pinako's suspicions that something had happened in her absence. Winry was clearly upset, looking both angry and sad as she snatched one of the finished automail hands from the table and moved to dock it in the Colonel's forearm.

"I'll do these." Pinako said abruptly, walking over and calmly taking the hand from her.

"I can do it." She argued hotly, her eyes glinting a little.

"I know you can, but you aren't going to." Pinako replied. Winry was not the gentlest of automailists—especially when she was angry or simply didn't like her patient—so Pinako thought it best to take over before she could get started. Pinako's opinions of her patients had no such affect on her work. "Go see if you can make Ed any more comfortable."

"But—"

"Go, Winry."

The girl stood with a huff, "Fine." She said and stormed off, not to Ed's side, but out of the room.

Pinako sighed, watching her go. She shook her head and turned back to the Colonel, whose eyes were also following Winry's departure. His expression was one of guilty, unspeakable sadness. It was a radical juxtaposition to the brief, almost childlike joy that had crossed the man's face only a few moments prior.

The old woman cleared her throat, calling his attention back to her.

"This should only take a few minutes." She informed him, sliding the left hand into the socket and twisting it into place with a click.

Den padded over to them softly and rested his head on Mustang's knee, just as the dog had done to Ed so many times over the years. Now, Pinako didn't take much stock in the supernatural, she was a no-nonsense woman with her feet planted firmly on the ground . . . but sometimes, she swore that Den watched over her patients like a guardian angel: judging the good souls from the bad ones with a wag of his tail or a low, unhappy whine of dark warning. The fact that the dog was seemingly so head-over-heels in love with this grave man surprised Pinako, but the man's reciprocal affection was even more surprising. The Colonel had been judged by the big canine and had passed the test with flying colors.

Whether or not Pinako really believed in her dog's divining spirit, she had to admit that Den was rarely wrong in his judgment of character. If Den accepted Mustang, he couldn't be all bad, in spite of her personal bias against all that he stood for.

"So, tell me." She began softly, trying to make conversation as she tweaked and adjusted the hand so that it fit at a more natural angle. "What's your story, young man?"

Mustang gave her a blank, uncertain stare, then turned to look at Edward over his shoulder. Ed had been watching them for some time, his pain-fogged golden eyes observing their interaction with mild interest. Mustang raised his eyebrows at him, asking a silent question. Ed replied with a tiny, encouraging smile and an equally tiny nod.

Something was about to happen; she could feel it in the significance of Ed's gaze. The air around Pinako was suddenly thick with change. Secrets were about to unfold, lies were about to be unwoven, and old hearts were about to break.

The Colonel turned back to her and, with a steadying breath, he launched into his tale, telling her everything. Some things he said were as painful for him to say as it was for her to hear, but she listened without a word, no matter how much she suddenly wanted to scream, to rage and kill him with her own two hands. He told her of the terrors of the war, and spoke the names of her children, quietly telling her what had really happened to them on that dark, bloody night.


	10. Physical Therapy

The Colonel was sitting on the porch. Ed stood in the doorway and looked at him, quietly amused by how he and the dog had attached themselves to one another. Mustang sat with his back resting against an old wooden support beam, his long arms wrapped possessively around Den, and his face buried in the black fur of the dog's shoulder.

Mustang's automail had been connected without much incident, apart from his unexpected confession that left both him and Pinako trembling. It had been an intense thing for Ed to watch, even through the pain of his raw nerve-endings. The wrought-up catharsis flying between the two adults—even after Mustang had become too overcome to speak any further of his sin—was an awesome, powerful thing that Ed felt he should not be witnessing. After only the briefest of considerations, both he and Al left the room. Such raw declarations of guilt did not need spectators.

What happened after that, Ed did not know, but Mustang now had his automail and Pinako was sitting at the kitchen table, staring distantly into her pipe-smoke as if she were a prophet scrying for answers. When Ed had tentatively asked her if she was all right, she threw a cutting-board at him and tersely told him to check on the Colonel.

She was angry, but that was hardly surprising. One heartening fact about her anger, though, was that it was not directed at Mustang. She saw past the victimized Colonel, just as Ed and Al did, to the source of the grim orders that he had been forced to carry out. Pinako would never like Mustang; they would never be able to call one another "friend," but she did not blame him for the death of her child and his wife.

That, at least, was good.

"Hey." Edward said, leaning down and scratching behind Den's ear.

Mustang turned his head blearily to look at Ed, then grunted and pressed his face against the dog again. Den didn't seem to mind in the slightest, and was in fact deliriously glad just to be getting so much attention from the Colonel.

"Hurts like a bitch, doesn't it?" Ed grinned at the man, eyeing his new metal hands with a droll sort of empathy.

Mustang gave another, noncommittal grunt and Ed laughed. Den turned his head and sniffed the Colonel's hair, giving a small, compassionate whine.

"Come on, get up. Come with me."

"I'm not going anywhere." Mustang said flatly, his voice muffled by Den's coat.

"Oh, come on." Ed coaxed, playfully jabbing him in the leg with the toe of his boot.

"No."

"You _have_ to."

"Why?"

"Physical therapy. Doctor's orders."

Mustang raised his head and glared at Ed incredulously. "Now? Already? I just had surgery a few hours ago!"

"Yeah, well, if you wait until tomorrow the joints are gonna freeze up. If you think it hurts now, that kind of stiffness makes it a million times worse, believe me. C'mon, let's go."

"I don't feel well, Ed." Mustang admitted after a brief pause.

Ed smiled ruefully, "I know it hurts, but it's nothing compared to what you've gone through lately, right?" When the Colonel did not deign to reply, Ed rolled his eyes and said, "It won't take that long, I promise . . . come _on, _I have to do it, too."

Mustang sighed heavily and looked at the dog as if to say, _Do you see what a pest he is?_ Den swished his tail and licked the Colonel's face in consoling reply. Ed rolled his eyes at them again, then picked up a melon-sized rubber ball from the corner of the porch and meandered down the wooden steps.

Mustang stood with a huff, staggering slightly and looking a little irate as he followed Edward out into the yard. Den yawned, considered his options for a moment, and then decided to tag along, keeping close to the Colonel's side.

The sun above them was bright and warm, casting the damp field in a cheerful, inviting light. Everything around them was still a little wet from the previous day's rain, so that the ridiculously green grass around them seemed to shimmer a bit as they walked through it. The air was crisp and clean, and—Ed thought as he drummed his fingers idly on the blue-grey ball that he was carrying—nostalgically perfect in every way.

Den bounded ahead of them excitedly, heading toward a tree in the distance that regularly housed squirrels. Ed watched him sniffing around the trunk, wondering amusedly if the dog had ever actually managed to catch one of the quick little creatures.

Ed shook his head, looking back over his shoulder to make sure that the Colonel was still following him, then frowned slightly. Ed hadn't been able to tell in the shade of the porch, but in the sunlight Mustang looked awful. That wasn't really surprising, considering the fact that he always looked awful lately . . . but now he looked_ really_ awful. The man wasn't kidding when he said that he didn't feel well, and his words were reiterated by the pallor of his face.

Well, automail is not pleasant. Ed could remember the first time he'd been hooked up—actually, no he couldn't because he'd promptly fainted when his nerves were connected . . . but he remembered the pain afterward and it had been _bad_.

As bad as the pain must be for Mustang, though, it was important to work through it to avoid getting stiff. The swelling that the Colonel would have around his stitches tomorrow was going to be bad enough, but add that to creaky joints and it's like being stabbed repeatedly with something white-hot and very sharp.

Ed knew this from experience and would never, ever put off his physical therapy again if he could help it.

"So, what is this going to entail?" The Colonel asked skeptically as Ed slowed to a stop in the ankle-high grass. Ed turned and smiled at him brightly. He was going to try and make this as pleasant as humanly possible.

"Ah. Well, you see . . ." Ed began, taking on a very stuffy, very academic air. "This process is highly scientific. In fact, it's _so_ advanced that I don't think you'll even be able to grasp it!"

Mustang raised his eyebrows as Ed struck a dramatic pose, holding the ball aloft in one hand and making his voice boom across the empty pasture. "Cities are built and destroyed on such concepts! We might cause riots with this process! Or crumble mountains! Or shatter—"

"Cut the crap, Ed." Mustang interrupted, smiling wryly. Well, at least he was smiling.

Ed sighed theatrically and dropped his arm, letting the ball fall to the ground, where it rolled to a stop at Mustang's feet. "We're gonna play catch."

The Colonel's eyebrows rose even further. "You're kidding."

"I am _deadly_ serious!" Ed grinned. "It's a great, low-impact way for you to learn how to work your hands. Go on, toss it to me."

Mustang stared at him for a moment, looked as if he were about to say something, but then shook his head with an amused sort of resignation and crouched down to get the ball. The automail hands jerked spasmodically as he gripped the ball and straightened. Ed saw him wince, but the man quickly hid his discomfort. It would still be several days—if not a few weeks—before Mustang would be able to use his new hands as he normally would, and for now they would twitch and spasm painfully every time he moved them. The pain would lessen the more that he moved, but at the moment the agony must be scarcely tolerable.

Teeth clenched against the discomfort, the Colonel gave the ball a half-hearted toss in Ed's direction. The ball would have landed spectacularly short of its intended target but—through the cunning use of a mad dash that nearly made him trip over himself—Ed managed to catch it before it hit the ground.

"Oh, come on. You can do better than that." Ed chided with a smirk.

Mustang shot him a withering glare, but did not comment.

"Hm. Well, let's see if you can catch better than you can throw." The boy said, tossing the ball back in a soft, underhanded throw.

The Colonel fumbled it slightly, but managed to catch the ball without too much difficulty and threw it back. After a few more shaky rounds of catch-and-throw, the pair developed a good, mindless rhythm and Ed's thoughts wandered elsewhere.

He thought about Winry sitting up in her room, no doubt mulling over the horrifying things that Mustang had told her. He thought about Pinako and her quiet, guarded anger. He thought about Al—kind, sweet Al—who was probably sitting with Pinako at the kitchen table, asking her to tell him stories to get her mind away from her dark musings. And, of course, he thought about Mustang.

He was always thinking, always worrying about Mustang. It kept him awake at night and distracted him during the day, clouding his head with bleak, brooding thoughts. Now, though, the tiny glimmer of optimism that he'd been desperately clinging to since he and Al collected the Colonel's broken, bleeding form from Ishbal had become a bright beacon of hope. Mustang was getting better, in spite of the bad flashback that he'd had the day before and in spite of the pain he was clearly in now.

And—Ed realized with a tiny, joyful start—the man was even _smiling_ a little as he tossed the ball. It was faint, but it was there.

Ed's heart leapt in his chest. Not only was the Colonel not really complaining about having to play catch with a kid while in so much pain, but he looked like he was starting to enjoy himself—was actually _playing_ with Ed instead of just throwing the ball at him. God, it was so good to see that smile . . . it wasn't ironic or bitter or wistful like the other smiles that Ed had seen cross Mustang's face lately; it was a genuine, playful smile and—though it morphed momentarily into a grimace of pain as he caught the ball again—it was a beautiful, heartening sight. The man was healing, mentally and physically.

"I'm proud of you." Ed said suddenly, without really meaning to. The words just came out of his mouth without warning. Mustang paused, holding the ball in his glinting metal hands. He'd been staring tiredly off into space, his bleary eyes fixed vaguely on the horizon, absorbed in his own thoughts. But, at Ed's abrupt words the Colonel looked up at him incredulously.

" . . . What?"

"For . . . you know . . ." Ed stumbled, suddenly flustered, "For telling Winry and Pinako what happened. I know that must have been hard for you to do and . . . well . . . I'm proud of you."

Embarrassed, Edward waited awkwardly for the Colonel to say something. Ed didn't know why those words had come tumbling so unexpectedly from his mouth. They were true, Ed _was_ proud of the Colonel's confession, but saying it aloud sounded inane and childish. Ed groaned inwardly and wished that he could retract the words. Mustang just looked back at him blankly, then shook his head as if trying to clear his thoughts.

"I think," The Colonel said slowly, "that we should go inside."

Ed blinked. Whatever he had expected Mustang to say, it hadn't been that. Was he just trying to change the subject? Had Ed offended him somehow?

"I didn't mean to upset you. Forget I said anything." Ed tried to mend quickly, his cheeks going a little pink.

Mustang looked at him for a moment as if he had absolutely no idea what he was talking about, then, "Oh. No, that's not it at all. I just . . . _really_ don't feel well."

Ed flushed an even more impressive shade of pink and felt the smallest twinge of annoyance in his chest. Edward had just opened up to the man and said that he was _proud_ of him, and Mustang didn't even seem to be paying attention. Then, Ed had to go and make an ass of himself because he'd interpreted the Colonel's inattentiveness as offense!

"I _know_ you don't feel well." Ed said, not looking at Mustang and trying to bite back his ire, "But we have to do this."

"Fullmetal, I—"

"We can take a break in a few minutes, okay?"

"Edward . . ."

"Oh, stop whining and toss me the ball."

"_Ed._"

"_What?_"

The boy looked up at the Colonel and his irritation evaporated. Mustang was swaying slightly were he stood, one hand against his clammy forehead as he returned Ed's gaze dazedly.

"I think I'm gonna pass out." He said blandly, almost wonderingly.

No sooner had the words left his lips, Mustang's knees buckled from under him and he pitched forward. Ed rushed toward him and managed to catch him by the shoulders before he could hit the ground.

"Whoa, easy!" Ed squeaked, lowering Mustang gently until he was kneeling on the damp grass, keeping a supportive hold on him to make sure that he didn't fall over entirely. Mustang's eyelids fluttered and he moaned softly, valiantly trying to fight off the swoon. Ed reached up and cupped the man's cheek in his left hand, cursing as he felt the feverish heat of his skin.

"Oh, man, you're burning up. Goddamn it, Colonel! We've talked about this, you're supposed to_ tell_ me when you have a fever!"

With some effort, Mustang raised his head and glared at Ed unfocusedly. "I _told_ you that I wasn't feeling well, you little bastard. You just told me to suck it up, so I did. _You_ can't get mad at _me_ for that."

"Whatever!" Ed huffed, a little relieved that Mustang was still coherent enough to be a jerk. "Come on, let's get you inside."

After a few moments of difficulty, Ed managed to get Mustang onto his unsteady feet. The Colonel was leaning on Ed heavily as they made their slow trek back to the house, his arm around the boy's shoulders to keep himself from staggering too badly.

"I am so sick of this." The Colonel muttered dejectedly, pushing a few strands of him perspiration-damp hair out of his face.

"I know." Ed consoled, "You are getting better, though. I can tell. It's just taking some time, but you're _definitely_ getting better."

Mustang snorted, frustrated and ill as he trudged forward. Then, the man's expression softened a bit, and Ed could feel the man's sidelong gaze on him. Ed turned to meet his eyes and saw something there that he'd never seen before. It was almost lamenting, but not quite. It was warmer, more respectful, but still a little sad. Perhaps . . . gratitude?

"Ed . . ." The Colonel began, but then stopped.

"Yeah, Mustang?"

The Colonel hesitated and then shook his head again.

"You throw like a girl." He said finally.

Ed smiled to himself, Mustang's unspoken appreciation still managing to make itself heard in the soft tone of his voice.

"You, too, sir." The boy replied, smirking softly.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Winry soundlessly pushed the door open and paused, letting her eyes adjust to the dimness of the room. She entered huffily and moved over to the unconscious figure lying in the bed. Den, who was lying protectively across the man's legs, lifted his head as she came near and thumped his tail against the bed in greeting. Winry scratched his ears for a moment, and then turned to do her chore, unhooking the empty saline bag on the IV rack and replacing it with a fresh one. It was something that she had done a million times over in her years as an automail mechanic, but never before had she been so grudging to do it.

She looked down at Mustang's sleeping face and scowled. Why her? Why did _she_ have to change his stupid IV? Winry shook her head and sighed. Well, it had to be done and Grams didn't seem to be in the mood for argument, so Winry had resignedly stormed away to undertake the task.

Ed had burst into the front room a few hours ago, half-carrying half-dragging the Colonel in with him. Apparently, the Military Dog had collapsed while they were doing some physical therapy. His fever had spiked again, but it was nothing too serious. It is not uncommon for patients to be a tad feverish after getting automail for the first time, but the fact that Mustang had been so ill before they'd even done the automail surgery made the shock to his system extra hard.

The man had been badly dehydrated, so after Ed dosed him with some foul-smelling medicine that the doctor in Youswell had prescribed him for fevers, they had decided it was best to hook him up with some intravenous saline. The Colonel, who had quickly been rendered insensible by the medicine, gave no protest and had actually dropped off into a drug-induced sleep before Grams had even put the IV in.

Now, hours later, the man was resting comfortably, although he'd probably have one hell of a headache when he woke up. Not that Winry cared. The jackass deserved a million headaches as far as she was concerned.

Winry took the damp cloth that had been placed on the Colonel's brow and dipped it in a bowl of cool water on the bedside table. She wrung it out and put it back on the Colonel's head then, taking the empty IV bag, turned to leave the room.

" . . . I stole the picture."

The sudden, slurred words startled Winry. She jumped and spun around.

"What?"

Mustang's eyes opened groggily in response to her question, landing on her in a confused, unfocused way. He was still very intoxicated by whatever drug Ed had given him and was clearly having trouble organizing his thoughts. He didn't realize that he'd spoken his words aloud.

"You said something about a picture." Winry reminded him, "What did you say?"

The Colonel regarded her for a moment then closed his eyes again. "Nothing. I'm just . . . babbling. It's the medicine." He mumbled, the edges of his words softened by sleep and mild delirium.

"No, I want to know what you said." She pressed haughtily, "What picture?"

For a long while Mustang didn't say anything. His eyes were closed and his breathing was slow and steady. Thinking that he'd dozed off again, Winry sighed her irritation and moved to exit the room. When she put her hand on the doorknob, though, he spoke again.

"The picture of you that your mother was holding when she died. I stole it." He said slowly, his voice distant and dreamy in a way that made Winry think that he wasn't really awake. "I still have it, if you want it back."

Winry froze, one hand still on the doorknob, a cold rock of wary confusion and grief solidifying in the pit of her stomach.

"Why . . . why would you take that?" She asked when she found her voice.

"I don't know . . . It would have just been thrown away if I hadn't. I didn't want that to happen. It didn't seem right."

" . . . Oh." Was all she could think to say. She stood in the doorway, the light from the hall silhouetting her slender frame and casting pale splotches of light on the bed and its occupant. "Colonel . . ?" She ventured tentatively after a long, breathless pause.

Mustang made a small, mewling sound like a child dreaming, but did not reply. He was way out of it and probably wouldn't even remember this brief, heart-twisting conversation that they'd just had when he finally awoke.

Winry shook herself and then moved out into the hallway, leaving the door slightly ajar so that Den could leave the room if he wanted to. She leaned herself back against the wall next to the door and covered her mouth with her hand, closing her eyes tightly as a wave of sick anger and sorrow slammed into her. It wasn't fair. It was just not fair.

"Winry?"

The girl opened her eyes to find Al approaching her, one hand stretched toward her with concern.

"Are you okay?" He asked.

Winry looked at him for a moment, then ran to him with a tiny, fragile cry escaping her throat. She pressed her face against his cold metal chest and fought the overwhelming impulse to cry like the little girl she had been when Colonel Roy Mustang had taken her parents from her. Al was startled at first by her sudden, passionate outburst, but didn't say anything, instead opting to wrap his arms around her as she trembled and gasped through her sorrow.

"It's not fair." She choked, voicing the words that were running through her head in a mad cacophony of rage and anguish. "I finally had someone that I could blame it on. I finally had someone that I could direct my anger toward . . . and I can't even be angry with him. I actually feel sorry for him . . .! He killed my parents—_murdered_ my family, and I pity him! It's not fair! It's not _fucking_ fair!"

"He didn't want to do it, Winry." Al said softly, running his huge metal hand up and down her back soothingly. "There wasn't any malice behind it, or anything. I know it must be hard, and it's okay for you to be confused . . ."

"Don't patronize me, Al." She spat, her face still buried in his chest. Al sighed and hugged her more tightly. Winry replied to his sigh with one of her own, blinking back the tears of frustration that were still threatening to overflow from her eyes.

Al's cold metal body was calming against her skin; she had always preferred the feel of metal over the feel of flesh, a fact that kept her distant from most of her friends outside of Ed and Al. Metal didn't get hurt. Metal didn't bleed. Metal didn't die. It was hard and strong, sleek and flawless. I was cold and perfect and didn't ask anything from her. If only her loved ones were as sturdy. If only she could encase them all in tempered steel, adorn them entirely with automail to keep them safe. Then she wouldn't have to worry about them, or cry herself to sleep at night when she lost them.

Quietly, Winry told Al about the picture that Mustang had taken. The boy listened attentively to her helpless, unsettled words, then gently pushed her away from him so that he could look her in the eye. Al was silent for a moment, then:

"The world has forced Colonel Mustang to do some terrible, unforgivable things, Winry. It has turned him into something that many people despise and many more people fear. If I've learned one thing through this whole experience with him, though, it's that he's a good man."

"I know," She whispered, looking away from him, "but I still wish that I could hate him. I wish that he could at least have left me with that."

Al nodded slowly, understanding and perhaps even empathizing with her feelings.

"Come on." Al said finally, his habitual brightness creeping back into his speech, no doubt in an attempt to lighten Winry's mood. "Aunt Pinako wanted me to tell you that dinner is ready, and if you don't get down there soon, you just _know_ that Brother is going to eat it all."

Winry favored him with a watery smile and—after a furtive glance at the partially-open door behind which the Colonel was dreaming silently—she followed Al down the stairs, her dark thoughts pushed to the back of her mind for the time being. She would deal with them later, when she had solitude and time in which to examine her bleak, jumbled thoughts.

For now, though, she forced a smile onto her face and sat with her "brothers" at the kitchen table, painfully glad to be surrounded by family again, even if it would only be for a little while.

b ((A/N: One more chapter to go, people! I'll try to have it up in a few days. Thank you all for your awesome reviews! I really appreciate them.)) /b 


	11. Epilogue: Hope

Colonel Mustang leaned casually against the outer wall of the Resembool train station's ticket booth with his metal hands in his pockets, one of which was toying with a worn, ivory-colored business card with the name Dr. Kolt embossed on the front. He kept glancing over at the red payphone at the edge of the platform while nervous/doubtful/fearful/ashamed thoughts flitted chaotically through his head.

He should make the call.

No. No, he shouldn't. He could deal with his problems on his own.

. . . But, really, he _should_ call and make an appointment . . . Shouldn't he?

_No._ He didn't need therapy. Absolutely not.

But—

"What's eating you?" Edward asked with a yawn, arching has back and stretching his arms up over his head languidly. Roy, Ed, and Al were patiently waiting for the train to arrive, each of them looking forward to being in Central again in just a few days. Al was crouched on the ground, fawning over a stray cat who had decided that the long white plume issuing from the boy's helmet was something that it should be playing with. Al's adoring, bell-like giggles resonated across the almost-empty platform as he dangled the tip of his plume for the little tabby to bat at, the care-free sound calming Roy's torn mind a bit.

"Nothing." Mustang replied with a sigh, "Just thinking."

"Worried about going back?"

Roy leaned his head back against the wall and considered the question for a moment. "Not really." He said, "I'm so tired of being bed-ridden. It'll be good to get back to work. I've been gone for almost a month, now . . ." He trailed off and a slight look of horror crossed his face, "Oh, God. I'm going to have _mountains_ of paperwork."

Ed laughed at the Colonel's chagrin and Roy shot him a tolerant glare. Oh well, no matter how gruesome his workload must have become in his absence, the thought of getting back to a semblance of normalcy was like a balm for his soul. He was tired of being sick. He was tired of people taking care of him. On the whole, he was just tired. Soon, he'd be back in the office, the balance of power returned to normal. He would truly be a _Colonel_ again back in Central and not just some sickly-looking guy with prosthetic hands who is constantly being bossed around by a very short, very _loud_ blond kid.

He took his hands out of his pockets and looked at them idly. They hardly hurt at all today. A little twinge when he moved his wrists or thumbs occasionally, but other than that they felt pretty good. He'd had them for a little over a week and, while he quickly started missing the simple pleasure of being able to feel things with his fingertips, they were still a vast improvement over having no hands at all. A gloomy, buried part of him still felt guilt for getting the automail after he'd sacrificed his hands in exchange for forgiveness, but he ignored it for the most part. His _not_ having automail would not benefit anyone, but if he _did_ have it then he could continue his life's work and become Fuhrer. Then, and only then, could he even begin to atone for his sins. This had been the plan for years, but somehow he'd lost sight of his goal as his mind was torn asunder by old, unhealed wounds that he'd had only managed to bury beneath his desperate ambition.

The flashbacks had become milder and less often during his weeklong stay at the Rockbell's, but they still had not stopped. Roy was beginning to think that they would never stop, nor even lessen to the once-or-twice a year occurrence that they had been not too long ago. He'd been feeling great for the past few days—at least in comparison to how he'd been feeling lately—but just that morning he'd been slammed with another attack. Luckily, he'd been alone and had managed to recover himself quickly . . . but since that moment he could not get the name of Dr. Kolt out of his head.

He didn't know what had been so special about this particular episode, but it left him poignantly resigned, finally surrendering to the fact that he needed help. He was healing very well physically now, but his mind was still all over the place. He wasn't himself anymore. Hawkeye had been right. Ed had been right. He couldn't fix himself alone and he was ready to admit it, even though the very thought terrified him deeply.

After his flashback that morning, he'd fretted and paced in front of the Rockbell's telephone, fingering Dr. Kolt's business card as one half of him tried to convince the other half that the call needed to be made.

No. There was a way around it. There had to be. He didn't need a therapist. He wasn't insane just . . . strained. Right?

He'd picked up the phone, then cursed and slammed it down again, earning himself a startled look from the dog. He couldn't do it. He couldn't just call up this faceless man and ask him to return his sanity to him. Roy just needed more time to work through his issues on his own. Yeah. That's it. Time.

Ed and Al had walked into the room at that moment, so Roy had quickly thrown his edgy musings onto the back burner and focused on trying to convince the boys that he was well enough to travel. He didn't think that he could stand another day of staying in the same house as Winry. She resolutely ignored him for the most part, which was fine with Mustang . . . but sometimes their eyes would meet and lock onto one another, neither able to look away and both holding back painful words that were writhing on the tips of their tongues. Pinako was easier to deal with. Not to say that she was kind to him—because she wasn't—but she at least had the decency to speak with him, as harsh and belittling as those discourses had been.

Whatever the case, Roy just wanted to go home. He'd been gone for far too long.

Goddamn it, he hadn't even _wanted_ to go on this fucking vacation.

"Automail isn't so bad, really." Ed said conversationally. "It has its perks." Roy looked over at him, reading an empathetic sort of encouragement in his golden eyes. Mustang had been staring down at his hands, lost in his thoughts for some time. Perhaps Ed had mistaken the pensive expression on his face for vexation over his new automail.

"Oh?" Roy asked, willing to play his game.

"Oh yeah. Think about it: you'll never have another broken nail."

Mustang laughed, "True, true. And I'm always getting paper-cuts at work. That'll never happen again."

"Exactly! No paper-cuts, no splinters, no blisters . . ." Ed listed, gesticulating flamboyantly with one hand as he counted off each benefit to having automail, " . . . And no need to worry about slamming your hand in a drawer. You might break the drawer, but your hand will be fine."

Roy smiled down at him, glad to see him in good spirits. As ill as Mustang had been, Ed's constant distress had been forefront in his mind since Youswell. It seemed that the boy carried his mental/emotional unrest like a physical malady, and it had deteriorated him like a weather-beaten rock in a sandstorm. He'd acquired dark circles under his eyes and a greyish pallor to his tan skin over the time that the Colonel had been convalescing, but now the kid looked—and acted—much better. His concern over Roy had decreased dramatically now that the man was healing so nicely and Ed was starting to act like himself again.

Still, it almost hurt for Roy to look at him. He owed the boy so much, had done so much damage to him over the past month, and could not even begin to repay him.

"You saved my life, Ed." Roy said abruptly, knowing that if he didn't say it now, then he probably never would. "You, too, Al. You both stuck with me, even though you didn't have to, even though I hated you for it. I might not have shown it much—or even at all—but I do appreciate all that you boys have done for me. I owe you more than I can even say."

Mustang spoke the words without looking at them, his eyes downcast and focused lamely on an ant that was traversing across his shoe. Next to him, Ed had gone still, listening. Al, too, had frozen in his play with the cat, turning his great metal head to look at Mustang in surprise.

"It's nothing." Ed said awkwardly. "We would have to have been terrible people _not_ to help you."

Roy glanced over at him, smiling wryly at the red tint that had suddenly appeared on Ed's cheeks. Really, Mustang had never met anyone so prone to blushing. He and Havoc had and ongoing game to see how long it took the Colonel to make him turn red each time Ed came in to give a report. Forty-eight seconds was the current record.

"Besides." Ed continued slowly, his voice very soft, "You've saved my life, too, even if you don't know it."

"What? When?" Roy asked incredulously.

"When we first met." Al said, standing upright with the cat cradled contentedly in his arms. "Ed had just lost his arm and leg and . . . he wasn't doing well. Do you remember? He was scarcely even alive, but he heard you telling Aunt Pinako about State Alchemy and then the very next day he was alert, asking her to give him automail."

"I had given up." Ed admitted quietly, scuffing a spot on the pavement with his boot. "I had lost so much . . . my arm and leg, Al's entire body, and—for a second time—mom. I was in so much pain and . . . I just didn't want to live anymore. I shut down. Then you showed up, and you . . . I dunno . . . I guess you gave me hope."

Roy stared at him, taken aback. This was all news to him. Ed had been in very bad shape when he'd first seen him . . . such bad shaped that Mustang could remember thinking to himself, "That poor kid isn't going to last the night." Roy had later attributed the kid's miraculous recovery to his now-famous bull-headed stubbornness and strength of will. Not once did Mustang ever think that _he_ had been the catalyst for such strength.

"If I've done the same for you . . ." Ed continued, a little brokenly, "If I gave you that same hope . . . then we're even now. You don't owe me anything."

Roy's vision blurred, but he mastered himself and shook his head wonderingly, once again amazed by this young man. Mustang's heart felt oddly confined in his ribcage and his throat tightened painfully. He didn't know why, but Ed's words had hit him with an almost physical force, driving the air from his lungs as if someone had kicked him in the chest.

Mustang saw it clearly, now . . . had been seeing it for weeks, but had chosen to ignore it. Dr. Foster had been right: Ed _did_ love Roy in a brutal, familial way. Even if that had not been the case a year ago, it was certainly a solid fact now. And, after all they had been through together . . . after all the time that they had spent side-by-side during Roy's fated "vacation" . . . after the choked, heartfelt truths that Ed had just spoken . . . the Colonel slowly realized that he cared for the little bastard in return.

The Colonel had not been close to anyone since Maes Hughes' death. Sure, he'd grab a drink with Havoc after work or go over to Hawkeye's place so that he could roughhouse with her dog . . . but that wasn't the same. Roy and Maes would discuss politics late into the night, more often than not falling asleep leaning against one another on Roy's sofa as the sun started to rise. Maes had been the first to notice Roy's unhealthy obsession with Ishbal and the terrible atrocities that he'd committed there, and had been the first to punch him in the face in an attempt to knock some sense into him afterward. Maes had been the first to know of Roy's suicide attempt, and had unknowingly talked him out of a second one.

_"I had it in my mouth, Maes and I couldn't pull the trigger. I was too afraid to end it."_

_"I would hope so."_

_"That's just the kind of cowardly human that I am."_

"_Every sane person is."_

For a long time, Maes had been the only person that Roy had ever really trusted. Then he was gone and the world had started crashing down around Mustang in a red inferno of pain and regret and the Colonel had had no one to turn to. This time, Maes had not been around to be Roy's lifeline. This time, it had been Ed.

The boy had stepped up and taken control as Maes had done, had put a fist in Roy's face and anchored him to reality. Ed had become the lifeline, the friend, the _brother_ that Maes had been. The kid would never be able to fill the ragged void in Roy's heart that Maes had left behind, but something about Ed and Roy's new perspective on him soothed the lonely ache of that absence.

The Colonel did not trust himself to speak. He clenched his jaw and looked down at the boy with such powerful emotions raging in his chest that he could scarcely tolerate it.

Slowly, hesitantly, Roy reached over and softly cupped the side of Ed's blond head, mussing his hair paternally. He pulled the boy close, leaning forward to rest his cheek on the top of his head, inhaling the lavender scent of the shampoo he'd used that morning. Ed stiffened slightly at Mustang's unexpected touch, but did not pull away. After a moment the young alchemist relaxed a little, resting his head against the man's chest and even venturing so far as to wrap one tentative arm around his waist, pulling him even closer.

"You're such a jerk." Ed said tearfully, his voice muffled by Roy's shirt. "You just like making me cry, don't you?"

"You started it." Roy answered, his voice also strained. He smiled, his face still pressed against the boy's golden hair, poignantly relieved that his out-of-character show of tenderness had not only been accepted, but had actually been reciprocated as well.

They stayed in that awkward half-embrace for several beats, each of them desperately holding back emotion. Roy glanced over at Al and saw that the armored boy was absolutely beaming at them, his entire body seeming to radiate approval and fondness like a wave of warm light. Mustang smirked at him, a little embarrassed by his own abrupt display of affection, but glad that both boys seemed to be appreciative of it . . .

. . . And that was all it took for the Colonel to make up his mind. With just that brief, heartening embrace, Mustang was ready to ask Dr. Kolt for help.

" . . . I have to make a phone call." Mustang said quietly, letting Edward go and straightening himself. Ed stepped back and looked up at him, his bright amber eyes seeming almost to glow under the sheen of unshed tears. Roy reached into his pocket and pulled out the business card, holding it up for Ed to see.

Edward's face slowly lit with a brilliant grin as he realized what Roy was about to do.Mustang took encouragement from that and, with a weak smile, headed for the payphone. This was it, the thing he'd been dreading since the day that Hawkeye gave him the card.

He put the phone to his ear and dialed quickly, his heart thumping a sick rhythm in his chest as the other line rang.

"Hello." He rasped, petrified as someone answered the phone, "This is Colonel Roy Mustang . . ."

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The Colonel had come into work that morning in spite of everyone telling him to take a few more days off to get settled. He had only just arrived back in Central the day before. Hawkeye had been pleasantly surprised to get a phone call from him saying that he was back in town and would be in the office the next day, but she was wary of him working again so soon.

The Elric brothers had been good at not revealing too much about the Colonel over the phone when they called to update her on his health status, but she knew that he was still recovering from whatever had happened to him. Even after all this time she had not been able to get them to tell her what was wrong with him or how he'd been injured.

Colonel Mustang had come in early that morning and was already at his desk when Hawkeye came in. He had been gone for over a month and in that month he had changed dramatically. When he looked up at her as she entered, with the sunlight pouring in from the window behind him accentuating how thin his face had become, she had not known who he was. It wasn't until he spoke that she recognized him and she had to struggle to regain her composure to keep him from seeing her disquiet.

The men had all been deliriously happy to see him, for all of them had been deeply concerned about him, constantly asking Hawkeye if she'd heard any news. He looked terrible, his uniform had become too big for him from the weight he'd lost, and he was obviously not completely recovered yet, but he was home and he assured them all that he was healing well.

Still, everyone was watching him as if they thought he might collapse at any moment. They hovered anxiously around him each time he stood up to do something until he finally got irritated and yelled at them to stop coddling him. Oddly, it seemed to put everyone more at ease to hear him get annoyed. It reminded them that he was still Colonel Roy Mustang, no matter how ill he had been or how different he looked.

The day was surprisingly uneventful, considering the earth-shattering reappearance of the Colonel. He worked diligently, refamiliarizing himself with old cases and studying new ones, complaining the whole time. That, at least, had not changed.

Hawkeye did notice that he was a little unsteady, though. Oh, not that he was trembling or wavering on his feet . . . but he seemed to be having difficulty picking things up and holding them. He dropped his coffee mug twice, eliciting a loud curse from him, and had trouble holding onto papers, especially if they were single sheets. His hands seemed jerky, spasmodic even.

She wanted to ask him if he was all right but she could tell that he would get angry if she did. The Colonel was trying valiantly to act as if this were any other workday, as if he had never been absent at all. Hawkeye wanted to respect that, and so she vowed to save her burning questions until after work.

Finally, the day was over and the men clocked out, patting Roy on the shoulder and congratulating him on his recovery as they went they're separate ways. Only Havoc and Hawkeye stayed behind as the Colonel unhurriedly stacked the papers on his desk and prepared to leave.

Havoc sauntered over to the Colonel's desk and leaned against it casually.

"So . . . " he began, trying to sound nonchalant, "Feeling better?"

Mustang raised his dark eyes to Havoc's face, then turned his gaze to Hawkeye, looking amusedly trapped. He knew that they were not going to let him leave the office without some sort of explanation, but he didn't seem to mind too much.

"I'm getting there." He replied, being purposefully vague.

"Alright, Roy, what happened?" Hawkeye asked assertively. For an entire month, she and his other staff members had been fretting about his welfare, each morning wondering if he'd died the night before from some unknown complication. They knew that the Colonel had been in bad shape, but had not been told why or how. Now that she could see for herself that Mustang was safe—albeit horrifyingly weakened—Hawkeye allowed some anger to shine through her concern. She had a right to know what had happened. She had a right to know if he'd purposefully hurt himself. She had a right to know if it was her fault.

The Colonel looked at her with a pained expression, reading her worried frustration and guilt. Slowly, he pulled on the fingers of his right-hand glove, taking it off with a hesitant air. He removed his other glove as well and held up his hands, his stony face betraying the tiniest bit of apprehension as he waited for his friends to react.

The mechanical hands glinted in the dying sunlight that filtered in through the window as he pushed back his sleeves to reveal the masses of scar tissue where the automail met his flesh. The scars were all fresh, some of them still held together by lines of stitches. Hawkeye could see thin wires running up his forearm under his skin, where they disappeared into the crook of his arm. Her stomach turned with horror.

"God, Colonel . . . " Havoc breathed, staring.

"I'm still learning to work them." Mustang said idly, looking down at his metal fingers. "The Rockbells tell me that I should have full control within the next few weeks."

"How did it happen?" Havoc demanded, shakily lighting a cigarette. Roy reached over and snatched it out of the corner of his mouth, pressing it to his own lips and taking a long drag before passing it back to him. He closed his eyes and blew the smoke out slowly, letting it spiral from his lips in a controlled stream.

He sat mutely for a moment and then launched abruptly into his story. He left nothing out, not even the parts that Hawkeye knew that he desperately wanted to forget. He began at the beginning and ended at the end. He delivered his tale factually, visibly trying to distance himself from his own recent history as if the story were not his at all. When he finished speaking he lowered his eyes and waited patiently for Havoc and Hawkeye to absorb his words.

Hawkeye was alternately numb and overwhelmed by what she'd just been told. Havoc took a tremulous drag on his cigarette, probably trying to think of something to say to his friend and superior. Lost for words, he offered the cigarette back to the Colonel, who took it gratefully and drew in another lung-full of calming smoke.

"Are . . ." Hawkeye began and then faltered as Roy met her eyes. She swallowed and started again, "Are you okay now?"

Roy smirked and looked as if he were going to say: _Of course I'm okay. Why wouldn't I be?_ But then he stopped and looked at his hands again, flexing them pensively.

"Like I said: physically, I'm getting there. Automail hurts. A lot. Fullmetal says it will get better, but it almost always hurt a little bit. It'll hurt more when it's raining or cold, but he says I'll get used to it. I'm healing, but it's frustratingly slow going. I'm tired all the time it seems like."

He raised his head again, looking back and forth between his comrades. "I feel a lot better, though." He added when he saw the worry on their faces.

"And . . . psychologically?" Havoc asked tentatively, lighting another cigarette. "How are the flashbacks?"

" . . . Better. They're less frequent." He fished in his pocket and pulled out a tattered business card. He toyed with it idly for a moment, looking suddenly uncomfortable. It took Hawkeye a moment, but she recognized the card as the one that Armstrong had told her to give to him.

"Edward found this in my luggage a couple of weeks ago and told me to call the psychiatrist. I finally swallowed my pride and called him just before we left Resembool." He paused and then gave a little laugh. "Dr. Kolt said he'd been waiting for that call for years. Apparently, Armstrong had mentioned me a few times during their sessions. Even without meeting me he knows that I need help . . ." He trailed off uneasily, eyes still on the card.

"Good, I'm glad." Hawkeye said, softly. "I know that it couldn't have been easy for you to make that call."

The Colonel shrugged awkwardly. "It had to be done. It just took me a long time to admit it. I have my first appointment next week."

Havoc clapped him on the shoulder warmly. "Whatever it takes, man. We're here for you."

" . . . A little less sentimental bullshit would be nice." Roy shot back with a tolerant grin, eyebrows raised.

Havoc gave a bark of laughter and shook his head, "I can do that. I'm actually really bad with the 'sentimental bullshit', but I thought that I should at least try."

A silence fell between the three of them then, filling the room with some powerful, nameless thing that ran its cold finger down their spines and touched them with a profound feeling of grim relief. They were inundated with a dark sort of catharsis, each silently reeling from everything that had happened, from the heart-breaking joy and anguish of having the Colonel back and knowing the terrible things that he had been through. It was a raw, harsh emotion that flooded them all for just a brief instant and then it was gone.

"So." The Colonel rasped awkwardly after a beat, "Not to blatantly change the subject or anything, but what have I missed around here?"

Havoc wiped his eyes furtively on his cuff and straightened up a little. "Well . . . there was this intern that came in a couple of weeks ago. Sweet little body on that girl. God, you should have seen her, Roy . . ."

Hawkeye sighed softly and shook her head as Havoc regaled the Colonel with his debaucherous escapades. Roy listened intently, laughing at his friend's filthy descriptions even though she knew that he didn't believe a word of it. It was as if nothing had happened. They were just two men hanging out after work, talking about sexual conquests.

He would be okay. Things would go back to normal. It would take a while, and it would be hard, but he would fully be himself again someday, Hawkeye was sure of it. He had made it this far, had been to hell and back and was still fighting. He would not be kept down by this. She would not _let_ him be kept down by this. He would recover from this ordeal and stand once more, destroying anything that compromised his goals.

He would heal.

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**((A/N: OMFG, it's over! I hope you all enjoyed it. Thank you all so much for your feedback, I really do appreciate it. **

**I have some more FMA stories in the works, for those of you who are interested. Hopefully I'll have something up soon.))**


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